


Poetry and Prose

by Jberry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: American - Freeform, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It's For a Case, John Watson is a Saint, John Watson's Blog, John!Writer, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Past Suicide Attempt, Poetry, Sherlock is Shy, Sherlock!Poet, Sikenlock, Slow Burn, Writer AU, Writer!AU, alternative universe, it's for a book, it's for a poem, it's so fluffy I'm gonna die, kind of like TV's Castle, try it you'll like it, writers going to crime scenes, you've got mail - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-02-28 18:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 24,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2742140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jberry/pseuds/Jberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a crime series writer.<br/>Sherlock writes serious poetry. </p><p>Sherlock takes time on his writing blog to give John Watson a hard time about his writing, though he's secretly read all his books and in love with the author. Mistaken identity, new love, a little angst, fluff that progresses into... Well. You'll just have to read it, now won't you?</p><p>Russian translation by never_v_hudo at https://ficbook.net/readfic/5836839/15068306</p><p>(From a tumblr prompt from Kinklock) Please let me know if someone else needs credit!</p><p>~~heed tags for new trigger warnings~~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Writing Angry (Jealous?)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinklock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinklock/gifts).



Sherlock has spent most of the day writing and rewriting the same poem. The words must fit perfectly, each rhythm and flow fitting with the next. 

His cell phone pings, then ends up thrown against the couch. 

"Fuck off!" He yells, pushing his face into his hands, growling at his keyboard, "God dammit!"

No words come. He types a bit, then erases, then stares into his laptop monitor again. 

Finally relenting, he pulls up his browser and brings up his blog. The keyboard clicks loudly as he types another two paragraphs and hits "publish."

_In an effort to further educate the general public on the common drivel that is flooding our bookstores, I have read John Watson's most recent work, 'Walking Wounded.'_

_Well, I say read, as in, suffered through it. His prose and writing style are quick, common, and unimaginative. This is the perfect formula of all American crime books. Though it is new that his protagonist is an Army doctor stationed in Afghanistan, the doctor's PTSD responses, injuries, and internal monologues are simply unrealistic. I was unable to finish the novel._

_I hope American writers and readers learn to appreciate true writing that is worthy of educating, lifting up, and expanding minds and vocabularies. This work is just another paperback that is only worthy of gathering dust on the living room shelves._

He sits back in his chair, the stack of John Watson novels at the feet of his desk, hidden from anyone walking into his office. He picks up "Walking Wounded" and reads the last few chapters over again. Before reading, he takes a moment to look at the author's photo on the dust jacket. He relaxes, pulling his feet up into his chair, wrapping his left arm around his shins as he flips the pages with his right hand. It's a hardback, first edition, and he'd purchased it at the downtown Chicago bookstore "The Dusty Bookshelf." 

A month after he'd purchased the novel, John Watson was scheduled to make an appearance at the bookstore for signings. Sherlock had almost gone to the bookstore to have his book signed, but he ended up oscillating on the pavement outside the door for fifteen minutes before finally getting back on the L train home. The bookstore had been crowded. Unlike when he had been invited there for a signing of his newest book of poetry a few months before.


	2. Prove You Care

Sherlock is nearing the best part of "Walking Wounded" when there is a loud banging on his door. He ignores it. He wants to finish reading the paragraphs where the army doctor, Hamish, finally feels at home when he secures a new job at a local hospital. The writing in this section has always drawn him in. Feeling alone, on the outside, unwanted, and injured, Dr. Hamish Roberts finds peace in understanding who he is and what he can do, rather than everything he's lost. 

"Sherlock, open this fucking door right now."

He ignores him. He wants to get to the part where Dr. Hamish sees a nurse that served in Iraq and they fall in love at first sight. Though it's an overdone romantic trope, it is well written, wrapping up all of the army doctor's feelings about coming back home. 

"Sherlock. Open. This. Door. We need to talk or your publisher is going to drop your next deal for failing to fulfill your contract."

Sherlock uncurls himself from his chair, dropping the book on the top of the pile. He rubs the back of his neck and cracks his vertebrae, bracing himself for another heated exchange with his agent. 

Before Sherlock can fully open the door, Greg Lestrade pushes past him and goes right to Sherlock's laptop. 

"Greg, what the hell are you doing? Get the fuck away from my stuff."

Too late, Greg has pulled up Sherlock's browser history and is turning the laptop around, holding it up out of Sherlock's reach, "I am your _friend_ Sherlock. I am on your side. But you can't tell me that you have writer's block, or you can't think of what to write. I track your IP address, and it seems you are perfectly capable of reading and writing all about John Watson-"

Sherlock reaches up and grabs the laptop from Greg, snapping it closed, "You're spying on me?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I am spying on you. Your brother is spying on you. I thought maybe you were having a relapse, I've never had to nag you so much for another book of poetry. Imagine our surprise when we discovered it was not a drug addiction, but your crush on a crime novelist-"

"Grow the fuck up, Greg. Don't you and my brother have some place to be?" He flops into his chair, flailing his arm in a dismissive gesture. As he flails, he kicks the pile of John Watson's novels, and the tower knocks over so Greg can easily see the covers. 

"Oh my God, Sherlock. Oh my God." 

"Shut up!" Sherlock huffs, piling the books up so they are hidden again behind his chair and desk. 

"Sherlock, I can buy you some more time with your publisher if you can do a better job of promoting your work. I'm setting you up with a couple of book signings. And I know exactly which ones."

"Oh my God," Sherlock huffs, turning away from Greg. 

"Quit acting childish, Sherlock. You did this to yourself. If you want your career as a professional writer to stay on track, you have to do these signings. Your publisher thinks you aren't taking your deadlines or your career seriously. Prove them wrong."

"Isn't that your job, Greg, as my agent?" He pops the sentence, glaring at him with his chin resting on his palm. 

"There's only so much I can do, Sherlock. I can't write it for you."


	3. A Response

Sherlock loves writing.  
Sherlock hates writing. 

When he was younger, his interests moved between the violin and writing. Over time, he found violin to be a soothing way to calm his mind, but writing held his interest. He could research, read, and stay an eclectic recluse all under the guise of 'being a writer.' He could lose himself in a story, pour his heart out into a poem, challenge himself to write each new line with a different meter or rhyme structure. Those were the great days. 

Today was a hateful, dark day. 

Sherlock is sitting in a coffee shop (a local one, thank you) with a moleskin and his favorite pen, a gift from his father when he published his first book of poems. He is purposefully keeping himself away from his laptop and the comforts of home so he can focus only on the work. After yesterday's dressing down from Greg, he doesn't want anything he looks at to be reviewed by his agent and his brother. 

He decides to play a game so he can write his five pages to justify his leaving his apartment for the afternoon. He writes a poem for every person in the coffeeshop. A woman with graying temples has just lost the love of her life to the next door neighbor with the Ferrari. A young man who is flirting with the other young, male barista just got out of a 7 year relationship with his high school boyfriend and is looking for a rebound. A young lady with a flower dress has just come from - 

His cell phone pings. This time, he welcomes the interruption. This game of 'writing poetry for strangers' is tedious and boring him already. 

An email alert from his blog. No one, in the year he's maintained his blog, has left a comment. 

He clicks the link to his blog to go right to the comments. At the bottom of his most recent entry is one response.

_"Apparently, the author of this blog has never been shot, or experienced PTSD from war. As far as how a solider would behave after being shot, this is something I don't have to imagine. You are free to criticize me, Sherlock Holmes, but you cannot accuse me of coming from a place of ignorance." - John H. Watson_

Sherlock put his phone face down, then stared out the window for a few minutes. His phone pinged again, and it took a moment to convince his hand to pick it up. 

_"In fact, to be fair, since you suffered through my 'common and unimaginative' novel, I will suffer through your poetry. Find my blog by clicking here  where I have written about my time in Afghanistan and how writing helped me in my adjustment back to civilian life. The next few entries will be dedicated to you and your writing, as you have been so gracious to fill up your blog with so many entries about mine." - John H. Watson _

Sherlock finds himself shaking as he puts his phone down again. He can't bring himself to click the link yet. 

One more time the phone beeps, a text alert this time. 

"Oh, Jesus." He exhales. He is nervous, did John find his cell phone number?

A text. From Greg: _Finally. Now your blog is interesting._


	4. Shots (Metaphorically) Fired

Sherlock can hardly sleep. He's drifted off for a few minutes at a time, but he finds himself dreaming about army doctors and detectives which causes him to snap awake. 

He rolls from one side to the other, but cannot find a comfortable place in his bed. Normally, he can keep himself in a rhythm. He's never required a lot of sleep, but he makes himself keep the habits of a man who has a regular job. Otherwise, he would fall into a pattern of never eating, staying up all night, and running himself ragged. He's afraid of slipping into that same pattern due to nerves and insomnia, so he makes himself at least lay in bed and rest until 5am. 

At 5, when the light is just beginning to change the sky from dark blue to pink, he raises out of the bed and goes to his laptop. He considers picking up another one of his John Watson novels, but he's spent too much time dreaming of those stories' plot points. He pulls up John Watson's blog, settling in with a cup of coffee and folding himself into his chair. He knows Greg and Mycroft will be able to see exactly what websites he's looking at, but he's too curious to care. 

Sherlock nearly burns himself on his coffee when the page loads. On the front of the site is another photo of John, looking similar to all the photos of him on his dust jackets, but this is a full body photo. John is in his Army fatigues, in a medical tent, somewhere in a part of the Afghanistan countryside. It's beautiful countryside, with hills and trees in the background, but inside the tent the photo is blurred with the action of men and women moving around the wounded. He wondered who took the photo, and what led John H. Watson to put it on the front of his author blog.

Scanning down the page, Sherlock sees the newest post, dated July 3rd at 11:40pm, just last night. His heart is thumping out of his chest as he reads the entry. 

_Sherlock Holmes_

_My sister, Harry, is a huge fan of your work, but she was going to throw away all of your books, even first edition signed copies, when I showed her your blog entry. You are well known as a recluse, so she was shocked that you even had a blog, honestly. You hardly ever make public appearances, so I have no photos of you or any idea of what you look like, even though we are both fairly famous Chicago authors._

_Harry and I read through all the entries, at least half of them are about me and my writing, all of them unfavorable discussions of what I write about and how I write. Why continue to write about me? Why continue to read my books, if they are so terrible?_

_But I digress._

_I read your first published book of poetry, and I wanted to make fun of it. I would like to write a scathing review, that your style is terrible, that your poems make no sense, that it's the worst thing I've ever read. But I can't. It's quite good, and I've read through it twice today. I don't completely understand it, but I can tell you are excellent at your craft. I especially enjoyed your poem 'Dry' :_

_The stars we stare at, into, are they possibly the same ones? I've not found anything to quench the thirst. I'm surrounded, yet alone, with my thoughts and tired to the bones. I can't speak the language to tell you my name, yours can be any number of syllables that I cannot say. Tell me something truthful, something hurtful, something that I won't forget we were here. I will disappear, no footprints, no bones, just us staring at the stars._

_Sherlock Holmes, this poem reminds me of my time in the Army. It's wonderful, short, full of feeling._

_But, what do I know about writing? I am apparently an idiot._

 

Sherlock takes a few moments to reread the entry, his fingers hovering over the keyboard for a moment before quickly typing and hitting enter on the blog comment before he can regret it. 

_Yes, you are ridiculous. And an idiot. - SH_


	5. Being Foolish, Being Brave

Sherlock immediately regretted the comment. He thought he was being cute, or funny, or…something, but it came out all wrong. John H. Watson, author, former Army doctor, blogger, already thinks that Sherlock Holmes considers him an idiot. He hates that the sentiment of the comment cannot come across on a computer screen. If he'd been able to say it to John in person, he would have couched it with a smile, or a side look. Here, it simply seems that he is being unnecessarily cruel.

Sherlock Holmes considers, however, John's actual post about his poetry. That the poem reminded him of his time in Afghanistan. Sherlock has to agree; the loneliness he's felt for years, simply being alone, writing alone, fits well with being sent away to war among strangers. The bits about not knowing someone's name were based on a crush he'd had on the barista of the local coffee shop that he could never get the nerve up to ask out. He'd been wearing a wedding ring the last time he'd handed Sherlock his coffee, so it was perhaps for the best that Sherlock wasn't brave enough to talk to the man. 

Sherlock is unaccustomed to the feeling, but his heart aches slightly. For months, he's been writing rather vile things about a man he didn't hardly know. It didn't seem personal to Sherlock when he started writing it, but he imagines now that it must have felt extremely personal to John. To be accused of not understanding what war, loss, heartbreak, and injury all meant, when he'd lived through it. When John H. Watson had been brave enough to go to war, save lives, and recover from his demons as best he could. 

He couldn't delete the comment on his blog, so he added another. 

_Please forgive that comment. It was meant to be funny, but it didn't come out that way. Thank you._

He almost stopped there, but he decided to continue, to be brave. His stomach hurt. 

_Please forgive that comment. It was meant to be funny, but it didn't come out that way. Thank you for your kind comments on my poem. I will endeavor to write another that will remind you of yourself. Based on the photo on your blog. -SH_

He hit enter before he could change his mind, slamming the laptop shut. He packed it into his bag, with his moleskin, pens, highlighters, and after some consideration, 'Walking Wounded.' He showered, dressed, and bounded out the door to the coffee shop (his other office.)

He had some poetry to finally **write.**


	6. William at the Coffee Shop

Sherlock sits at the coffee shop with his favorite coffee and a muffin, pulls up John Watson's website, and begins to make notes in his moleskin. He thinks about what it would feel like, the sights, sounds, the work, involved with being an Army doctor in Afghanistan. He'd even moved to the rank of Captain, there were some clues in the book as to what he had done in his line of service to earn his promotions, but the gaps he'd have to fill in the rest with imagination. 

He'd written two more poems, drafts scratched out with new notes, when he decided to open back up 'Walking Wounded' to see if there was another story, another part of him that he could put in his poems. He is sipping his coffee when he hears an amused voice at his side asking if he "May I sit down with you?"

Sherlock was about to look up and refuse with a snappy retort, but he couldn't speak. _Of course. Of course it would be him._

Dr. John H. Watson took a seat next to Sherlock. For a moment Sherlock panicked, thinking perhaps he recognized him, but John only looked at the book Sherlock was holding with an amused look. 

"First edition. I can sign it for you, unless I already have signed it? Though, I think I'd remember meeting you?"

(Jesus, is he flirting? Is this flirting?) 

Sherlock blinked a few more times, "Yes. I mean, no, it's not signed, I would like it. If you would sign it."

John smiled. He had a mug of tea, with milk, and a scone at his side. He took out a fountain pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, and took the book from Sherlock's hands. 

"Who should I sign it to?" 

John cocked an eyebrow, the pen poised over the front page of the book. Sherlock blinked, trying to think, almost blurting out, "Gorgeous blue eyes, sandy gray blonde hair-"

Instead, he gave the name "William Holmes," the name of his older cousin after whom he was named. 

John wrote the inscription, blowing on the ink to dry it. After a moment, John tilted his head, "You related to the writer, Sherlock Holmes? Holmes isn't a terribly common name."

(Shit. Shit. Shit.)

He swallowed. Close to the truth, something easy to remember, "He's my cousin." 

John laughed. A loud, rolling belly laugh that met his eyes, "Oh my god, does he know _you_ have a first edition of my book?"

"Well," Sherlock smiled, he hadn't smiled in a very long time. He couldn't remember the last time he had been out with anyone else, besides for a working event, "I keep them hidden when he comes around."

"Oh my god. So he really does hate me, then?"

(Truth. Tell him the truth. This is absolutely insane. Is he on some type of hidden camera show? Did Mycroft do this?)

"I don't know if that's it," Sherlock buys time, taking a drink of coffee. He will initiate the question so he's prepared, "Have you read his blog?"

John smiles, picking at his scone. He has clear and open face, with a beautiful smile and bright eyes. Sherlock considers how long it took John to gain that smile, based on the difficult recovery described in 'Walking Wounded.'

"Yes. Came across it by chance when my agent was doing her usual sweep of my name, since I'm going back out on another wave of signings. Irene is a great agent, she wants to be prepared for the fan base's sentiment, especially when it comes to the war. Imagine when we discovered that my most vocal critic was a fellow local author. We've even done book signings in the same circles. I've probably met him and forgotten."

Sherlock turns pink. John takes a sip of his tea, looking over at Sherlock over the brim of the mug. 

"Why are you…" Sherlock restarts, tries to think of how to act, how to phrase himself in a less direct way, to be better, "I guess I'm surprised you're bothering to talk to me."

"Two reasons, William," John sets his scone and tea aside, leaning forward over the table, "I come to this coffee shop at least weekly, usually in sweats and a ball cap, and I've always noticed you near the window, writing. I've never wanted to bother you, but I've always been intrigued by you. Today I got the nerve up because you have a copy of my book, I figured you'd at least talk to me based on that evidence."

Sherlock can't help smiling. His cheeks hurt from feeling so happy, just from this short interaction, "I'm glad." Is all he says, drinking another sip of his coffee, though it's gone cold. 

"What are you writing?" John asks, quietly, as if telling a secret.

"Well," Sherlock instinctively pulls the moleskin off the table and holds it on his lap, "I write poetry….uh, too, like, Sherlock…and mine is more private. I'm writing a couple of poems for a friend. Well, a colleague really, I don't know him terribly well. He's indicated he'd like more poetry, so, I'm going to write some for him."

"I won't pry," John smiles again, tilting his head so he can look Sherlock in the eyes, "There's nothing kinder than having something dedicated to you as a gift. In fact, your cousin in his blog comments said he's writing something for me."

"Oh?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow, doing his best to appear surprised but somewhat disinterested.

"Yes, it seems you Holmeses are actually quite romantic, really, underneath it all."

Sherlock blinks. Then blinks again, worried his brain has gone offline. He blurts out the most truthful thing that comes to his lips. 

"That's not what most people say."

"Oh, and what do most people say?" John smiles again, a wide grin with teeth, eyes sparkling. Sherlock knows he is on dangerous ground indeed. 

"They normally say we're insufferable know-it-alls."

John laughs. Sherlock can't help joining in, the feeling so foreign to his ears and his ribcage. 

"Thank you, William. Here is your book. Maybe I'll see you around, yea?" With a wink, and another smile, he pushes his chair in, taking his dishes back to the counter. The poet can't help watching him as he leaves, amazed at their chance encounter, and how easy and relaxed it was to talk to one another. 

Sherlock opens the front cover of his book, running his fingers over the dried ink. 

_William Holmes, I'm glad I worked up the nerve to talk to you. If you want to work up the nerve to call me, here's my number. Leave a message and my agent will get it to me. Otherwise, I'll be at the Chicago Expo reading from my new work in 1 week. See you there? John Hamish Watson._

Sherlock put the book down, running his fingers through his hair. 

He sent Greg one text. 

_I'm going to kill you._


	7. The Empty Phone

Sherlock stayed at the coffee shop for an extra hour, modifying his next set of poems. He would edit a few lines, then his thoughts would wander back to John. His eyes. His smile. His voice. He felt his cheeks and ears burning. 

Sherlock pondered how he was balanced on a dangerous tightrope. He was desperate to create a lovely set of poems for John, but he understood how he was playing two different roles. Sherlock was who had put up blog entires full of nasty reviews of John's books. William was a fan of John's work, and he was someone who John was interested in having at least some type of relationship with.

He pushed down thoughts of why he'd behaved that way on his blog. The only conclusions were juvenile, really. 

His heart ached and he was on the verge of a headache.  
Sherlock was not used to this feeling. These feelings. Regret? Remorse?

His phone pinged. He picked it up after taking a deep breath. A message from Mycroft. 

_You shouldn't threaten my boyfriend, brother dear. As assistant to the Secretary of Homeland Security, I can easily monitor this type of behavior. He's only trying to give you a push. Jealousy, anger, and love are close emotions, little brother._

(Why couldn't he have admitted who he was right away to John? Started over? Apologized?)

He would try to do the best he could with the poems. 

Before he goes back to rewriting in his moleskin, he puts John's number into his phone. He looked over his phone, realizing the extremely small amount of contacts in his phone, the few texts, the small amount of missed calls and voicemails. 

If John found out who he really was, he was at risk of losing his only friend. And, they'd only talked for an hour. 

Sherlock poured his feelings into his writing.


	8. New Early Morning Comments on John H. Watson's Blog

_**dark chase of regret** _

_everything I've wanted to say is not said. I keep it, quiet, my phone empty. You cannot reach me where I've gone._

_Death would be quiet, shaking hands with the devil in hell. Impatient he is, bored in his kingdom, found me here in the dirt, the heat, the buzz of moans and cries for their mothers and relief from shrapnel digs._

_In fighting the devil and death itself we agree he cannot take them all. My guns, fatigues, trained to kill as easily as defend bringing life taking life while the devil is at my heels. We work together side by side, sleepless, he tells me stories of how he was the most loved angel and was dismissed._

_Our stories are the same. Healer, warrior, beating the devil back enough to give me room to work, bullets and shrapnel found me. My work was cut short. I was cut out from my work, cast out, years of work and study._

_The devil is still at my side, the nightmares present, oppressive. Not afraid but missing the war, we worked together, he and I, cast out angel agreeing who to save._

_My pain is from dismissal. No longer needed. Broken. The devil understands._

_I walk in black and white and the only color is the fallen angel at my side. In nightmares, quiet, he explains flaming swords keeping Adam and Eve out of the garden. The need for purges of plagues and plane crashes. How death close to my hip is comfort. Blood pumping through my veins, walking beside the fallen angel I see the battlefield._

_I've been dismissed and I can hardly breathe. I'm grateful he's at my side, though I'm broken, I cannot fix or push him aside. He takes and takes and I can only watch his lottery. I am no longer in control to take some lives back from his grip. I whisper to him, as a friend, in the middle of nightmares, feet on the sidewalk, my litany of prayers begging to keep some back upon the earth._

_At times the fallen angel listens. But my weapons are weaker than they ever were._

_-SH_

 

_**Sherlock,** _

_**I've re-read your poem dozens of times. It's 3am. My sister has read it, some of my mates from the Army and medical school have read it, my mom won't stop crying. You got this from my picture on my blog?** _

_**This is amazing. Brilliant. It's as if you've deduced what was running through my mind in the darkest moments, especially in those times after I'd been shot and I had fever dreams. You'd boiled down all my feelings about the war and being a doctor and a soldier and made it, well, the insanity of it more understandable to those who weren't there.** _

_**I don't write or understand poetry, but I understand yours. It's amazing. My army mates and I would love if you'd do a reading at the VA support group. I think it could be therapeutic. From what I can tell, you don't do that sort of thing, but I think you'd really help them.** _

_**I'm blown away. Will this be published?** _

_**John Hamish Watson** _

 

_John:_

_I've reread your comment. I do not deserve such praise. My writings on my own blog have been cruel, especially towards you. I wanted to give you this poem (though I admit I've been inspired to write more) to try and correct my past cruelty. I am glad you enjoyed it. I do not fully understand what you went through, but I'm glad I captured pieces of it._

_Again, your kindness astounds me. - SH_


	9. If You're Amenable

Sherlock is unsure when he should contact John. Should he text? Should he call? Is one day too soon? 

He sat in his office after another restless night. He reflected on how his time was limited with John. Eventually, he'd find out he was not William, but Sherlock. At least, in 6 days, they would probably run into each other at the Chicago Expo. He knew Greg was behind the sign up for that particular event. He was being cute, attempting to add matchmaker to his CV. 

If he's honest with himself, he wasn't sure if he was thrilled with Greg or thunderously angry. 

He gave up. At 10, he decided to be safe and simply text him:

_This is William, going to the coffee shop in a bit to write. Would you care to join me?_

Sherlock paced, watching the phone, making himself more tea, watching the phone, dusting his bookshelves, checking to be sure the volume on his phone was turned up. 

Finally, with his nerves shot and stomach in knots, he receives a return text at 11:30:

_William, I'm sorry, I was in meetings with my agent. Where are you? I'm on west side. Can you do lunch?_

Sherlock has to give himself a moment to breathe, to take a minute before responding so it doesn't appear he's been watching the phone for an hour and a half. 

_Yes. Where should I meet you?_

John gave Sherlock directions to a small pub on the northwest side of Chicago. With Sherlock's small car and aggressive driving, he was able to make it in 25 minutes. As he entered the restaurant, he scanned the room, catching John's eyes. He was sitting in a corner both, facing the door. He gave a little wave, and Sherlock was tempted to look behind him to see who he was waving at. 

"Hi," John smiled as Sherlock sat down across from him. That smile. Was he so lonely he instantly was infatuated with the first person that gave him any bit of attention?

"Hello," Sherlock could feel himself turning pink. He put his head down to study his menu. 

"Hey," John interrupted his thoughts, tapping his forearm, "I'm glad you texted me. I was looking at a boring afternoon of staring at a blank screen."

"You're welcome," Sherlock knew as he looked at John he must have the most ridiculous smile on his face, "I hate it when that happens. Especially when-" he backtracked, as he was about to say _when an agent's breathing down your neck_ , "especially when you're trying to write something for someone. Puts extra pressure on."

John looks thoughtful, then goes back to his menu. The two of them keep stealing glances at each other over their menus, which dissolved them into giggles just as the waitress came to take their lunch order. 

When they're alone again, John leaned forward a bit. Sherlock rested his forearm on the table. 

"How did your piece turn out, William, for the colleague?"

Sherlock bought some time by drinking a large drink of water, "I think he liked it. At least from what he said. I'm writing another one."

"I know they're private, but I'm sure your poems are lovely, especially if you share Sherlock's talent."

"Oh?" Feigned surprise, slightly disinterested, curious. 

"Yea, he put a poem on my blog and basically apologized. It was a wonderful poem. Do you know if he's publishing more?"

(Tread carefully. Close to the truth.)

"Um, not sure. I think he might be."

John wrinkled his brow, then put his fingers over Sherlock's hand, "William, I'm sorry, you didn't come to talk about your cousin."

"That's ok," Sherlock, terrified, took a risk as his time with John was limited. He turned his hand so he could link his fingers through John's. 

"Tell me about you, William," was John's reply, with an encouraging squeeze to his fingers. 

Through lunch, Sherlock talked about his cousin's family, weaving in bits of true stories from his childhood. They talked through most of their lunch, but any silences were comfortable. Their feet touched a couple of times, and they grinned at one another, tapping their legs playfully. Two hours moved quickly. 

"Oh! I dominated the whole conversation."

"William, everything is in my books. You just don't have any books for me to read about you."

Sherlock smiled. John's phone beeped, he glanced at it, frowning, "I wish I could spend the rest of the day with you, but I have to go back to my agent's office to go over the Expo details."

John and Sherlock walked out together, their fingertips brushing. On the sidewalk, they stood for a moment, smiling at one another. John picked up Sherlock's hand, kissing his knuckles briefly, "Next time, if you're amenable, I'll kiss you properly when we're indoors."

Sherlock blinked. John's lips were soft, and he took a moment to imagine his lips on his own. 

"Yes, John, if you'd like a next time, I'd be amenable." 

Sherlock didn't remember most of the drive home, he took the route back on autopilot. 

When he got back to his apartment, he alternated between lightly running his lips over the knuckles John kissed and dreaming off into space. 

In the late evening, he started on John's next poem.


	10. Asking to Meet

Sherlock was up again. He couldn't sleep after Greg's text:

_We need to meet tomorrow to go over the Expo reading schedule. I'm coming over at 10 with coffee._

He sighed, looking through John's blog and his books again. He decided lovesickness, pining, or whatever-this-is helps his writing but is damning for his sleep schedule and anxiety.

He had been working almost non stop on his second poem. He wanted it to be personal to them, but not so much he'd make it too revealing. He thought about deleting his own blog, but he decided to keep it for the time being. 

He looked at John's comment again about his writing and he felt a warm tightening in his stomach. This spurred him on to complete poem two, posted at 3am. 

_**Devotion** _

_arms ache. the wings of devotion come quickly. I fight against ribcage, sternum, lungs breathing shallow. This is unknown walks towards land and feeling we are unaware._

_Will you call out in the morning as pink light turns sky from purple to deep blue. Can you see clouds and sunlight where you are. Dust in wind. Devoted to listen for the voice which I'm attuned._

_Dust and sand mixed in sandy blonde hair. Devoted. Devoted to the eyelets of shoes to eyelashes to neck creases the dust. After returning washing it out of your skin for weeks. doesn't want to leave the warm skin tan lines._

_Following through buildings street signs pavement. I trace where you go. Devoted to the run, the climb, return. Always dust and tan upon the skin. Gentle marks of companions that do not wish to lose you._

_-SH_

After posting, Sherlock takes a few moments to get ready for bed. Before leaving to the bedroom, he glances at the screen again. 

 

_Sherlock,_

_You amaze me. I couldn't sleep, and I was so delighted to find this new poem from you. I feel as if you're saying something that I don't fully understand. It's not as clear as 'dry.'_

_Can we meet? Will you be at the writing Expo?_

_Thank you. Thank you._

_John H. Watson_

Sherlock stares at the screen, "Oh, shit."


	11. I'd Like to Hear Your Voice

Sherlock spent all morning playing violin. His fingers were shaking. He was desperately trying to calm himself, to bring himself out of his mind into a calmer place. 

Greg entered the apartment promptly at 10 with coffee, as promised. "The Expo is in three days, Sherlock. We've gotten you the prime reading spot, in the morning when you can read in front of the entire large group. It then will split into the individual booths, you'll be interspersed with other artists and writers. Here is an advertisement poster."

Sherlock felt his stomach drop. 

It was a gorgeous poster. Luckily, there were no photos on it. The thick glossy paper was covered with a gorgeous painting of a mix of writing tools and paintbrushes, interspersed with names of the writers and artists. 

_**Chicago Artist and Writer Expo** _

_**Modern sculptor Molly Hooper** _

_**Painter and Tony Award winning Theatre Set Designer Mary Morstan** _

_**International best selling author John H. Watson** _

_**2012 Pulitzer Prize nominee poet Sherlock Holmes** _

Linked in with the other artistic flourishes were other up and coming artists and a few very talented students who had been invited. 

"So I'm reading? The beginning of the first day?" Sherlock asked, running his fingers lightly over the poster. 

"Sherlock, look at me," Greg touched his arm to raise his eyes off the poster, "Mycroft and I came up with this idea because you….well you've been alone. You have no friends-"

"Hey-"

"Am I wrong?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, but he sits back in his office chair. 

"Mycroft told me one of the few boys you loved in college got your wrath and criticism. That was your brother's first clue that boy was different. He's never seen that type of behavior since you devoted your entire blog to telling the world how terrible John Watson is-"

"That's not true, Greg-"

Greg stands in front of Sherlock. Looking down his nose at him, "Re-read your blog, Sherlock. Every other entry is about John Watson. We just wanted you to have a chance to meet him in person. You'll do great at the Expo."

Greg and Sherlock finalized the pieces he was going to read and how many books Greg would bring to sell. 

By early afternoon, the plans for the Expo were set. 

Sherlock decided to spend some time on John's blog and his own blog. John had written a new comment on Sherlock's blog. 

_My agent showed me a copy of the poster. I didn't realize you were a Pulitzer nominee! Sherlock, I've not heard of you doing a reading or a large public signing like these. I will finally get to meet you. I'll watch your reading. Will you find me afterward? Will you read the lovely poems you've written on my blog? Please let me know when you can. John H. Watson_

Sherlock responded quickly, he couldn't make himself wait. John's writing seemed excited as it was more choppy and off the cuff than usual. 

_If you don't mind, I'll read the poems I wrote for you. I am very nervous about reading or being in large crowds, which is why I don't do it very often. I hope it goes well._

Sherlock decides to add one more line. 

_I'm looking forward to seeing you. -SH_

A few moments later, John responded. He was waiting by his computer as well. 

_I can't wait to hear you in person. Yes, it would be lovely to hear those poems you wrote. I have a VIP pass so I can sit up front to make you less nervous. Unless I would make you more nervous by sitting too close to the front. John H. Watson_

Again, a quick response. 

_You are incredibly kind and forgiving. I need to meet you in person to assure myself that you are actually real person and not just words on a blog. It would be lovely to see you near the front. It will help to have someone supportive there. - SH_

Moments after Sherlock hit the enter key. 

_It will be my honor. I will see you in three days. My sleep schedule is messed up. We will need to celebrate when this is all over. If you're amenable? - John H. Watson_

Sherlock remembered how John had kissed his knuckles, asking if Sherlock was amenable to a more proper kiss indoors. Scenario felt as if John was flirting slightly with Sherlock but cheating on him with his his 'cousin' William. 

_Yes, I would enjoy that. I would be amenable. - SH_

Sherlock looked at the screen a few moments, running his lips over the knuckles that John had kissed. After a few moments his cell phone pinged. A text from John. 

_William, can we meet at the coffee shop? I need to talk to you soon. JW_

Sherlock panicked. 

Did John know William and Sherlock were the same? Did he not want to see William anymore? Why the text right after talking with Sherlock?

Sherlock was feeling bold. Any time with John was lovely, even if it would end poorly. 

_Be there in 30. just come when you can. William_


	12. Annoying Older Brother

Sherlock knew his time with John was limited. John would find out that he and William were the same, or that Sherlock was really difficult to deal with, or they would simply stop speaking. He's hoped to have time with John until the Expo before he said something, before he'd have to say goodbye. 

Now, John had asked William to meet Sherlock after talking back and forth with Sherlock online. Keeping it straight was making his head swim. 

Sherlock dressed in his nicer blazer and purple button up. He smiled as he pulled on the cuffs, deciding to wear this same outfit to the writing Expo. "Into battle," was all he muttered as he made his way to the coffee shop, just with his cell phone and Moleskin. 

As he arrived at the coffee shop he saw John. He had an empty plate next to him and a couple of tea bags - he'd been there a while. He'd most likely been in that exact spot while he'd been typing on the blog with Sherlock. His eyes were red rimmed and his cheeks were pink. 

Sherlock sat across from him, tense, but he tried to smile. John rubbed his eyes. 

"William," John's voice cracked. He took a shaky breath. 

(Was he dying? Ill? Retiring?)

"I don't know how to tell you this, William. Please don't think I'm an awful person."

(John you are the most wonderful person in the world and I hardly know you. Anything I'll forgive. Please forgive me.)

"I've been talking with your cousin-"

Sherlock had to remind himself to breathe and clear his mind so he could focus on John. 

"-Sherlock and….Jesus. We seem to be getting along well. And I'm looking forward to meeting him. I enjoy talking with him. I like you, too, but I'm so old fashioned. I don't even know if he's, well, but I'm looking forward to meeting him. I just feel weird since you're cousins. I'm happy to talk to you when I see you at the coffee shop but…"

Sherlock couldn't help smiling at John's rambling. He was so nervous, he was flexing his hands and trying his best to make eye contact with Sherlock. 

"John, it's ok. I appreciate your honesty. It's all fine," John was biting his lip and breathing quickly, "And Sherlock, he…he hasn't dated much. But from what…I can tell from the blog, I think he likes you. Very much."

Sherlock's heart melted at John's smile. His cheeks moved so Sherlock caught a hint of dimples, his eyes looked much brighter. The poet hoped it wasn't the first and only time he'd see that smile. 

The moment ended too soon. Sherlock caught in the window reflection Greg and Mycroft walking hand in hand. They were rounding the corner to turn into the coffee shop. 

"Oh fuck," Sherlock was bolting out of his chair.

"What is it William?" John wrung his hands. 

"My Archenemies are here. I'm sorry," Sherlock bounded over to Greg and Mycroft as they entered the doorway. 

"Oh how sweet, Greg, Sherlock finally has a boy over-"

"Shut up," Sherlock hissed, "Isn't there another coffee shop in Chicago?"

"This is the best one in Boys Town. The owner doesn't mind if Mycroft and I make out-"

"Gross. Just, please, I'm leaving. Don't talk to John," Sherlock looked back over his shoulder. John was sitting at the same table, looking shell shocked. He then put his eyes down and was typing into his laptop. 

"He thinks I'm someone else. Just a guy from the coffee shop he likes. Just, let him think that for now."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "You going to have a big reveal at the Expo, then?"

Greg interceded, "Myc, leave him be. We will drink our coffee and not talk to him, ok?"

Sherlock nodded. He went over to John, who looked up from his laptop and gave a small smile, "Good luck, John."

"You too, William." He expected John to pry, but he didn't.

Sherlock spun on a heel, resisting the urge to push a shoulder into Mycroft on the way out the door.


	13. Sweet Skies, Cold Ground, Dry Grass, Warming Sun

That evening grew toward the midnight hour. Sherlock alternated writing and playing his violin. Screeching on it was a more descriptive term. He picked at some leftover food in his fridge and went out on the fire escape. As the temperature cooled, he looked up at the stars, playing through various scenarios in his mind. 

If John saw him read the poems at the Expo would he be angry? Just think he was a psychopath? Never talk to him again? As the ideas grew darker in his mind, he returned inside. 

Sitting down at his computer with the intention of transcribing his writing from the Moleskin onto the computer, he saw he had a private message on his blog. It was John. 

Sherlock poured himself a small tumbler of scotch before reading the message.

_Hi Sherlock, I am sure your cousin William told you about he and I meeting at the coffee shop we frequent. May I call you so we can talk? I want to avoid any awkward situations. John H. Watson_

Sherlock panicked momentarily, then realized he had the perfect excuse.

_I know it's not ideal, but can we talk back and forth like this? I am very nervous and I'm trying to rest my voice. - SH_

Sherlock sat and stared at the computer screen. He remembered acting like this with a boy in high school. He'd thought about him all the time and was completely obsessed with him. Danny. Danny was the brave one and had given him his first kiss, his first _everything_ , actually. 

When Sherlock caught Danny cheating on him with a boy from a neighboring school Sherlock responded with a dark depression and drugs. Prescription pills, anything he could buy or steal. In rehab he discovered poetry as therapy. 

Since Danny, he'd had a few flings that lasted only a week or two. The longest was a month. His partners would grow tired of his moods, his need to be alone to write. Someone left the minute Sherlock started playing the violin. 

No one fit with his eccentricities.   
He would hold onto John as long as he could, even if it was a strange friendship for a couple more days. 

_We will make do. Don't be nervous. (I know, easier said than done.) Your poems are lovely._

Sherlock tried a joke. 

_Who is this? John? You didn't sign your name-SH_

Sherlock smiled. He remembered John's bright smile from earlier. 

_It's me. You're ridiculous. John H.Watson, MD_

_Not as ridiculous as this: William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Pulitzer Prize Nominee, All around obnoxious asshole._

Sherlock giggles at himself.

_Wait, William is your first name? John H. Watson, MD, Best selling author_

Lies were easy over a screen. 

_Yes. Named after my cousin. You had a story about him? Was he mean to you?_

_No, that's ridiculous. John H. Watson_

_You're ridiculous. SH_

Sherlock waited a moment for a response. 

_I need to be serious for a moment. I'm just going to say it. I met your cousin, we had lunch, kind of a date. But I like you a lot, and told him so. I know this is very forthcoming, but I want to be upfront. JW_

Sherlock waited a moment, thinking of a way to reply, then there was another message before he could respond. 

_Please don't think I'm weird. JW_

_John, weird is my favorite type. But I admit I'm afraid to meet you. I think you will be disappointed. I'm known for being difficult. And, I do things on purpose to keep others away. SH_

_What sorts of things? JW_

(Lie to you about who I am. Tell you I'm actually my cousin. Acting the coward every chance I get to tell you the truth.)

_I don't talk sometimes for hours at a time. Just to think. SH_

_More time for me to write. I'm happy to talk to you when you're ready. JW_

Sherlock almost came clean with John's admission he was happy to talk to Sherlock when he was ready. He couldn't. He was selfish, and wanted more time with John before he was rejected. 

_I play violin. Sometimes in a screechy, off tune way when I'm in a sulk. SH_

_I love violin. I played clarinet in school, and it always sounded screechy. I will like whatever you play. JW_

_John, you'll need to be patient with me. I am a ridiculous man, I don't do relationships often. I don't have any friends.SH_

_You at least have one friend._

Soon I will be back to none. 

_Two more days until I can listen to your poetry and meet you. I know you don't like crowds or doing readings. I'll be there. Even if you play a screechy violin. JW_

_John, I hope you'll be happy to meet me. But I'm scared your response to be the opposite. SH_

_No, Sherlock. No. I've been looking forward to meeting you. You're in your poems, and our 'letters' and messages back and forth. I know our introduction was rocky, but your poems, your heart, are lovely. You just need practice dealing with people. JW_

Sherlock rubs his eyes, they're prickling with tears and sleep. He send John one more poem. A final note before the Expo. 

_John, here is one last poem. I've then got to log off. I'll see you in two days. SH_

_** Fall ** _

_**I am a fall child. Indian summer, then cool frost on window panes and glass.** _

_**Leaves changing and branches becoming bare  
Beautiful preparing winter slumber** _

_**The warmth expecting cold and snow snaps  
Beauty fire bushes shivering off leaves as small snowflakes drop** _

__**Beauty waiting for the creep of cold and dark  
On the bookends of Labor Day and December  
A surprise of temperature by moment, sweet skies, cold ground, dry grass, warming sun**

__**Fall does not know how to behave  
how to be still  
Rocking in a sway from sweat on brow to ripped cable-knit**

_**You wait in a pendulum swing for a more reasonable season** _

Sherlock's intention was to immediately turn off the computer but he couldn't do it. He waited a few minutes, then read John's message. 

_Oh, Sherlock_

Sherlock shut off his computer, some tears rolling down to his chin. 

He was only able to sleep due to exhaustion.


	14. The Reading Tree

Sherlock wanted to crawl, run, leave. Never come back. 

When he was scared or felt alone as a child he would bound to the backyard to his favorite tree. It formed a perfect seat in the middle where all the branches would spin down into a bowl shape. Its branches spread out for what felt like a mile, at least to a little boy. He would sit in the branches of the tree at the crux where they all met, hidden away from the world. His books were his greatest friends.

Eventually, the tree rotted and had to be removed. 

He cried for days. Before all of the tree was carried off he took some of the bark. He took this piece of bark with him to every reading event, whenever he felt nervous, and he would hold onto it to remind himself to breathe and keep away anxiety as much as he could. 

With no tree, the fire escape was his grown up place of respite. It was off the ground, near the sun, and had the perfect breeze. He took his laptop and his moleskin, continuing to write and revise what he needed for the Expo and what was expanded for the book. He would make a quick deadline. 

Every poem was about John. Afghanistan, sandy soil, feeling alone and wanting to be understood, grief, redemption. All of it, in some fashion, was inspired by this man who only saw him in person as William Holmes and spoke to him through messages on blogs. 

He hugged his knees to his chest. John did choose Sherlock, over someone he'd seen in the flesh. He'd chosen Sherlock. As little as he knew about the poet, he had chosen him. That would have to keep him when John was gone. When there were no more messages and only awkward encounters at mutual literary events, if he would happen to see him again at the coffee shop and they would pretend they didn't know each other. Sherlock could handle grief, and loneliness, and feeling different. He was used to that. Thirty years of those feelings had forced him to acclimate to that. Poetry would bear the brunt of his frustrations. 

As he lost track of time observing the clouds move and form new shapes, he heard a ping on his phone. New messages on his blog, text messages, asking how he was doing, if he was ready for tomorrow, if he was doing ok, how his voice was holding out. 

Some text messages from Mycroft. 

Most were blog messages from John. 

He didn't answer any of them. 

Sherlock knew he was preparing himself for the inevitable reveal of who he really was to John, for the lies he'd told, and John would no longer be a comforting presence. He wasn't sure how this reminded him of his reading tree, but the grief must feel similar, or remind him of the ache of that loss.

Towards evenings, the texts became more frequent. He received a text from John. (How does he have my number?) Oh, William. 

_William, I am not trying to be a jerk about things, but Sherlock isn't responding. I know he was nervous about tomorrow. Have you heard from him? Is he ok? John Watson_

Sherlock didn't respond to that text either. 

Towards evening, Greg texted. Then called. Then texted. Those were ignored. 

Greg was let in by Sherlock's landlady after his pounding on the door was not answered. Sherlock didn't talk, he knew Greg was speaking, but he wasn't sure what he was saying. 

(This is what heartbreak feels like. But it's ridiculous. I hardly know him.) 

Greg sat Sherlock down in a chair, made him tea, ordered food. Sherlock walked through the motions of doing what he was supposed to do. 

"Sherlock," Greg said. Sherlock looked up, "I've been calling your name for five minutes. What is wrong?" 

"It's John."

"Is this you pretending to be someone else at the coffee shop?" Greg encouraged Sherlock to take another drink and eat some more. 

"Yes, he's going to find out I'm the person from the coffee shop, and he'll hate me…." 

"Stop, Sherlock. He knows me. He knows I'm _your_ agent. We tried not to talk to him at the coffee shop, but we did give him a weird look when he asked if we knew your cousin William, too. Mycroft can't help his looks of disdain."

Sherlock did slightly smile at this. 

"Sherlock, he may suspect it and be waiting for you to tell him. I don't see how he couldn't put it together that you were pretending to be your cousin-"

The poet ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed his face. He was willing himself to not cry again, "I just know he'll hate me."

"Stop. Authors and famous people do this stuff all the time. Aliases, hiding, trying to get people to like them for who they are, rather than their fame. Explain it to him." 

Sherlock didn't answer, but picked at his food. 

"Will you be ready to read tomorrow? He will be there."

Sherlock nodded. Greg's phone rang, "Sorry, Sherlock, the boss." Greg answered, gave Sherlock an intense look as he listened to the other line, "Ok, I understand, I'll talk to him about it." 

Greg put the phone down, and looked into Sherlock's eyes. 

"John H. Watson has been calling the office all afternoon trying to track you down. He showed up looking for you and was turned away since he didn't have an appointment. He's worried about you. You spend too much energy making excuses for why people couldn't possibly _like_ you, while I believe there is a man smitten with you who is desperately trying to make sure you're ok." 

Sherlock looked at Greg, tired to his bones. He quietly explained, "I'm going to play some violin for a while, then sleep early. I have all the poetry written."

"I also came to tell you that John H. Watson is reading part of his new novel immediately after you read your poetry. I couldn't get it changed for later. But I've cancelled your booth time. After you read, you can stay and listen to John, or you can leave. I will be there to help navigate that."

Sherlock thanked him, then went to his violin to rosin the strings. He knew the poem he would read. He would at least be clear in this poem regarding his feelings.


	15. Follow Me to the Reading Tree

Sherlock made himself rest, but he couldn't sleep. He opened his window at 3am so he could hear the birds sing and feel the breeze. He showered, dressed, shaved, and put product in his hair so it was extra curly. 

He wore the same outfit he'd worn the day he'd finally met John in the coffee shop. He wanted to feel connected to him. 

Sherlock paced the apartment, triple checking everything was in his bag. Laptop. Moleskin. Pens. Large font copies of his poem. 

The reading tree bark scrap was in the pocket. 

Greg and Mycroft texted him multiple times to be sure he was on his way. He turned off his cell. 

The Expo artists had to be there at 7am. He arrived two minutes before. Normally, he was thirty minutes early for any engagement. Thankfully, Greg appearance at the mingle breakfast. The Expo was in a large conference hall and the writers and artists were in their own staging room. 

Greg went to the mingle breakfast in Sherlock's place. Sherlock went with Mycroft went with Sherlock to his own room. They sat next to each other, silent. Mycroft knew better than to try to speak to him, but he forced Sherlock to turn his phone back on so Greg could reach him. 

Greg had texted at 7:15am, twenty minutes before. _John is here asking about you. I just said you were here, practicing your reading and you couldn't talk until later._

The next interaction with John wouldn't be so positive. 

Sherlock focused on his new poem. It was much longer than most of his other works, but it was the crown of his new book of poetry. With this completed, with some revisions, he had enough to send to Greg to begin moving towards publication. 

His heartache at least have him strength to write from his heart and soul. He was unaccustomed to the feeling of loss, as he'd never had anything he wanted to keep, anything to lose. 

Mycroft put his arm around Sherlock and led him to the edge of the small stage. He handed Sherlock a bottle of water, continuing to hold his shoulder while Greg introduced him. No one but Mycroft would have noticed he was trembling. 

Greg gave Mycroft a nod, then began speaking. 

"Sherlock Holmes is one of the greatest poets of our age. He has won numerous awards, including the Arthur Renze prize, the Shelley memorial award, and he has been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. As most of you know, Mr. Holmes rarely gives public readings of his work. As the crowd is considerably larger than past venues, his brother Mycroft will be next to him on the stage-"

Sherlock looked at Mycroft and squeezed his arm, whispering "Thank you." Any other day or circumstance Sherlock would have scoffed at the support. 

"-so please be generous and kind. We welcome Sherlock Holmes as our opening reader."

Thunderous applause. Greg was smiling and clapped in Sherlock's direction. Mycroft guided him to the podium, helping him place his water and smooth out his papers. Sherlock arranged the microphone a little higher. It trembled with his fingers. 

Sherlock didn't hear any shocked gasps, yelling, people leaving their seats. He kept his eyes down, deciding to imagine John wasn't here. He took a shaky breath, Mycroft close enough their arms brushed. 

He opened his mouth. He inhaled. Putting his hand in his pocket to feel the tree bark, he was able to begin. His deep baritone resonated, even though it was shaking. 

_**Follow Me to the Reading Tree** _

_Running to the reading tree, sitting in its branches, my first friend_  
Books of pirates, war, kisses in blankets of moonlight  
Books of lands across oceans, time zones  
Heroes rescuing the damsels in distress  
Villains in murderous intent   
Love, liberty, war  
Follow me to the reading tree  
Branches wide and stretching to France's coast, Canadian soil, Argentine grasslands, Afghan sand  
Under the branches we read our first stories  
Our seasoned and loved stories  
The stories we've told no one but one another  
Washed up as stories in bottles  
The branches are wide enough, strong enough, to keep us both  
She gives us her branches, her shade, the ties from embargoes and hourglasses  
The trunk is large enough for me to hide behind   
I watch  
Your beauty is best under mottled sunlight through green leaves  
Your beauty is best with first snow peppered across rough bark  
Your beauty is best when the leaves are piled in spiky grass  
Your beauty is best with the brown buds of unfurling leaves  
I will take your beauty, your words, your stories   
In any way  
In any season  
We run at breakneck pace toward our reading tree  
I want to run hand in hand, fingers wrapped together  
Hiding is easier  
The shade holds us in winter, hollowed together, sharing warmth  
Shading in summer  
Open and virginal in fall, laid stripped and bare  
Beauty in spring, the season we shared stories  
My first friend  
I cannot find a tale of redemption or forgiveness of simple foolishness  
I shake for what I've done  
I've burned our reading tree  
Stripped bark  
Ripped branches  
Salted soil  
Torn the roots up from the ground  
We have no shared stories   
Without protection from seasons  
Without sending messages in bottles across the sea  
Washing up near your feet in hopes you'll read them  
Unrolling the damp messages under the reading tree 

Mycroft leads him off the stage as soon is he is done. Sherlock hears thunderous applause, feels Greg clapping him on the back. He's saying something. 

Sherlock finds the nearest exit and runs.


	16. Redbeard (Cupid)

Sherlock runs until he reaches the park a few blocks from his apartment. He imagines he must have been a sight. A tall man with black, curly hair jogging through alleys, through crosswalks, jumping over small barriers. After the second mile he considered calling a cab but he'd left his bag, computer, and phone all at the Expo. He's happy he has no ties to anyone. No way to reach him. He can drown alone in his sorrows. 

A young couple pushes their toddler in a stroller. They get the toddler out of the stroller and let it play underneath the largest tree in the park. Another couple walks up a few minutes later, bringing their young child, allowing them to play together, pulling at each other, the grass, their mothers' and fathers' legs. 

He feels a trickle behind his eyes. How different would life have been if he'd known John as a young man? As a child? Would he be different, having a true friend, or a loving boyfriend, sometime in his life?

The sun was warm on his face. He felt he was getting a sunburn on his cheeks and nose, but he couldn't make himself leave the park. He took his jacket off and rolled up his shirt sleeves, unbuttoning the top few buttons on his shirt. 

Sitting alone was calm, peaceful, and kept his mind from spinning out of control. He knew he was in a dark place. He was resigned to being thankful he didn't have any money to go purchase something to ease the pain.

The couples eventually drifted away from the park, kids in tow. Sherlock checked his watch. The Expo may still be running, but John most certainly had spoken already. He regretted not hearing John read his newest work, but maybe he could find it on YouTube. 

Sherlock was wrapped in his thoughts of John reading, or what John would focus on as his next project. 

He was snapped out of his musings by a large red dog without a leash, galloping toward him with his tongue hanging out. With its long hair and skinny long face, it looked as if it were always in a perpetual state of excitement. He could hear a man yelling in the distance.

The dog jumped on Sherlock, licking him, wiggling his hindquarters as Sherlock scratched his ears. Sherlock loved dogs, but his mother had been allergic. He continued to pet the dog and let it kiss him, hoping the man yelling was the owner. 

"Redbeard!" The man snapped, only a few feet away. Sherlock looked up. 

It was John. 

Sherlock couldn't move, the dog had him pinned. He couldn't stop looking at John, who was even more lovely than the last time they'd spoken. His face was unreadable. 

"I hoped it was you," he said gently, pulling Redbeard to him and clipping a lead back on him, "When I saw you, as William, at the coffee shop with Greg, I hoped it was actual Sherlock. I was rather fond of you both. It seemed too rare of a coincidence."

Sherlock was breathing quickly and shallowly. John sat beside him on the bench, taking his hand, commanding Redbeard to sit, "Why did you leave? I'm not angry. "

"How did you find me?" Sherlock trembled again. John squeezed his hand. 

"Greg gave me a few possibilities. If you weren't at this park I was going to wait at your apartment."

"I'm angry with you-" John began. Sherlock tried to pull his hand away, but John only gripped his hand with the other, "but I know you, I'm getting to know you, for real. I'm just hurt you didn't trust me."

Sherlock feels John scoot closer to him on the bench. 

"Sherlock, why didn't you tell me? Why did you leave after your reading?" 

Sherlock lets the truth come pouring out of him. He can't stop it, eyes watering, "I didn't expect you to be like this. To be forgiving. I thought you'd not want to see me again. Everyone knows I'm difficult. That people don't like me-"

"Oh, Sherlock," John begins, wrapping his fingers around the back of Sherlock's neck. Not a pull towards him, but a reminder that John was there, and he couldn't run away this time. Between Redbeard at this feet and John's hands on him, Sherlock couldn't leave.

"Do you tell yourself those things, Sherlock? To keep others away? Because it's not true. I've gone looking for you everywhere, stalking your agent, your publisher, retracing the paths around the coffee shop. I hoped so desperately the man at the coffee shop who was so lovely to talk to was the same one who had a kind and generous soul that came through in his poems. I've done a lot of stupid things. This is nothing. You were just scared. "

"I'm sorry," Sherlock begins to cry in earnest, down his face, reminding himself to breathe so he doesn't break into sobs. 

"It's ok. It's all ok. Nothing to be sorry for," John tenderly rests his fingers on Sherlock's jaw to move him to make eye contact, "We need to talk. I can't bring Redbeard to the coffee shop. Can we go to your house?"

Sherlock blanched. 

"Just to talk."

"Yes," Sherlock exhaled, "Alright. But I'm not-." 

"Stop saying what you're not. I like you, all of you, and I want to get to know you. As much as you'll let me. I ran out after you because I want you to hear my story. I want you to explain your poetry to me. I grabbed my dog and began searching. I was determined to find you, now that I knew my two favorite people were one in the same."

He couldn't make eye contact with John. His eyes were so bright blue, and he smiled brilliantly. 

Sherlock reached down to pet the dog, running his fingers through its fur, "Why did you bring your dog with you?"

"Mycroft said you loved dogs."


	17. Salve

It was easy to walk with John. They had a height difference, but their arms brushed one another as they swayed with their steps. The sidewalks were busy with families enjoying the weekend, friends giggling at one another, couples out on dates. 

John kept Redbeard close to his side. A good dog, he occasionally sniffed at someone, but he kept himself in stride with John and Sherlock. From the outside, Sherlock imagined they must look like a couple on a walk with their dog. 

The entire walk Sherlock took mental inventory of his apartment. Was there anything embarrassing that he'd left out? The worst things he could think of was his stack of John Watson books and some dishes in the sink. Neither of those seemed all that important. 

Sherlock knew he was a recluse, but he didn't realize how much until he was up against his door to his apartment building. He felt himself breathing shallowly and quickly. John put his hand gently on his upper arm. 

"John, the only people I've ever had at my apartment have been my agent, who is my brother's boyfriend, my brother, and my parents."

Redbeard sat down, wagging his tail, looking up expectantly at the two men. John moved in closer to Sherlock. 

"Sherlock, if this is making you uncomfortable, I can come back another time, or we can meet another day-"

"No, no. I'm just explaining. If I act…why I'm…. I've just never been easy to know." Sherlock rubs the back of his neck. His skin is warm. 

"I think you got a bit of a sunburn," John says, as he touches Sherlock's nose and cheeks gently, "We will go inside, and just talk, and we will find something to take care of the sunburn. I am a doctor after all. Nothing has to happen. Everything on your own pace."

Sherlock nods, "But isn't a sunburn a little below your station?"

"No, Sherlock, not for you."

Sherlock isn't sure if he's never felt this way because he never let people get close to him, or because John is truly exceptional. He has no idea why such a wonderful person would voluntarily spend time with him, and go to such links to find him. 

"Is my brother paying you to….be with me?"

John leaned in closer, "Sherlock, he didn't bribe me, or I would've found you sooner. Please stop over analyzing this. I like you, for you, you're lovely. Let's go inside." 

Sherlock nodded, hardly able to turn the key in the lock. Redbeard nearly pulled John up the stairs in his excitement. Sherlock grabbed John's hand to keep him from falling forward. Their fingers were linked as they stumbled up the stairs, Redbeard guiding them. 

Sherlock didn't remove his hand from John's even though it was awkward to unlock his inner his apartment door. When they were inside the threshold, John asked if Redbeard could go off leash. Sherlock simply unclipped him, sat on the floor, and began wrestling with and petting the dog. John sat down by them, amused. 

John looked around. 

"What's wrong, John?"

John watched Redbeard pace in a circle, then lay his head down on Sherlock's lap. 

"You only have one kitchen chair, and one recliner, and your desk." 

Sherlock stroked Redbeard's ears as he explained, "Well, there's only one of me. Of course, I've never needed two." 

John looks at Sherlock and leans forward on his knees. He strokes his cheek. Sherlock doesn't move. 

"Sherlock, do you have a first aid kit?" 

He nodded, pointing under the sink. John retrieved it. Redbeard, who normally followed John everywhere, kept his head on Sherlock's lap. John had to scoot Redbeard away in order to get closer to Sherlock. 

John dug out the small bottle of aloe vera, applying it with gentle strokes to Sherlock's reddened nose, cheeks, and neck. Sherlock swallowed. John smiled, his lovely, brilliant smile, and Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. He concentrated on the gentle but calloused fingers of John running across his face. The uncomfortable warmth was replaced with a need to lean into John's touch. Redbeard huffed out a breath against his thigh. 

Sherlock, eyes still closed, said "Thank you." As he opened them, John moved closer, eyes taking in all of Sherlock's features. He pushed some of Sherlock's curls back so he could look into his eyes. 

"Terribly romantic, putting salve on your sunburn?" John said gently, running his fingers through Sherlock's curls, "Would you be ok if I kissed you, Sherlock? Just a small one?" 

Sherlock nodded. 

John leaned in, Sherlock kept his eyes open. As he breathed in, John gently kissed him on the lips. John broke the kiss quickly, but Sherlock leaned forward to give John another kiss back. 

Sherlock held John's hand, pulling him close. The dog was still sitting near Sherlock, now John was tucked in there as well. John stretched out his back.

"I understand now why people have more than one piece of furniture," Sherlock smiled at John, and he giggled, "Let me show you where I normally sit to think." 

Sherlock led John to his bedroom, John raising his eyebrow at him, "No…it's through the bedroom…I mean-"

"Sherlock, you're fine. Go ahead," John's smile was beautiful. He was once asked why he never wrote love poems. He simply said he didn't like them. Being with John, even for this short amount of time, sent his heart and thoughts careening. He could write hundreds of love poems and not be finished. 

Sherlock turned away from John and took a deep breath to steady his thoughts. He was trembling as he pushed open his bedroom window, then stepped out onto the fire escape.

He expected John to follow, but John was still in the room, peeking out, "You're a bit taller than me. I don't know if I can get over."

"Here," Sherlock helped John move his legs over the lip of the ledge and onto the metal of the fire escape. It was incredibly awkward. They broke into giggles once they were both out onto the grated floor. 

Sherlock laid down his suit jacket so John could sit more comfortably. They sat side by side, John gently placing his arm around Sherlock's shoulder. 

"Is this your new reading tree, then?" Sherlock felt John smooth his hair back and place a small kiss at the crown of his forehead. 

Sherlock nodded, pulling out his tree bark from his pocket, "This is what's left of it. I keep it with me when I have to be in large crowds or at readings. I touch it and I remember….I guess I felt safe."

John wraps both arms around Sherlock and the poet leans backward into John's chest, "Sherlock, your poem was about the tree. What else?"

Sherlock exhales, pulling John's arms closer. He turns his head so his lips are right at John's jaw, "I feel safe, and I felt safe, with you. And I was afraid I'd destroyed us before we even started." John looks down at Sherlock. 

Sherlock feels braver with John's eyes on him. He wraps his fingers around the nape of John's neck and pulls him down for a kiss. It's a deeper, hungry kiss. Sherlock feels a little lost and slightly dazed when their kiss breaks. 

They sit in silence for a few moments. John giggles and Sherlock can feel his laughter shake his body, "So, I can change 'William Holmes' in my phone to 'Sherlock Holmes', then?"

Sherlock nods, burying his face into the crook of John's neck in embarrassment. Redbeard barks John gives Sherlock one last squeeze, "I've got to go home and feed Redbeard. I'll text you later."

Sherlock bites his lip, "I ran out of there without any of my things. They're all at the Expo. I don't have my phone."

John kisses him quickly on the mouth, "You silly man. Here, use mine. Get Greg or your brother to bring it to you."

After John had left, after quite a few goodbye kisses with Redbeard pulling on the leash, Sherlock wrote until he fell asleep at his desk. He woke up when Greg brought in his personal items from the Expo. 

After he left his desk and climbed into his bed, he slept soundly until mid morning the next day.


	18. Consulting Cosmopolitan

Sherlock Holmes, perpetual recluse and bachelor, had slept until 11:57am. His schedule, which ran like clockwork for the last 5 years since college, had been broken. He woke, disoriented and unsure what day it was. 

Yesterday was full of everything that drained him. A public reading. Being around people. Pouring his heart out in a deeply personal poem. 

Revealing himself to John Watson. 

John Watson forgiving him. 

Sherlock stared at his phone. No messages. For thirty minutes he paced his apartment. Unsure who makes the first move, scared of consequences and if they're really dating. He sits in his chair, recalling John's sad commentary that the apartment was not set up for visitors. 

He texts John, "Are you busy?" but erases it before sending it.

He wonders if John should call, or if he should call. He has no idea what the rules are. He looks up some online magazines that mostly talk about women and men in relationships. Cosmopolitan had an article about "satisfying your man in bed" but finds the suggestions ridiculous. Sherlock waits. He drinks some coffee, paces the room, hears his phone ring. He hates talking on the phone, feels too invasive, but he does it. For John. 

"Hey Sherlock," John says brightly, his voice sounding a little tired, "I was too keyed up to go to bed at a normal hour, so I slept in."

"That's ok," Sherlock's voice was close to a whisper. He was painfully shy. And tired of being so. He wished he could change, with a flick of a switch or a button. He thought he would burst out of his skin with how frustrated he felt with himself. 

"Do you want to come over? I've got a nice writing room. There's space for you, too."

John. John who would make friends easier, who would have people over and more than one set of furniture, was inviting him over to sit and work. He wondered what his apartment would look like, or if he had a house.

"Sherlock, are you still there?"

"Yes, I just…I'm not sure how to do this," Sherlock runs his fingers through his hair. 

"How to do what?"

"Just. This. The dating. Do I call you? How do we do this? Are we dating?" Sherlock couldn't stop talking, "I was reading some magazines about dating and I didn't know if they applied to us-"

"Oh, Sherlock. It's ok. We are just us. If you want to be."

"Yes. Yes, I want to be," He heard John chuckle. 

John gave Sherlock his address. He offered to pick Sherlock up, and Sherlock imagined John was afraid Sherlock would change his mind. 

One of the magazines suggested that if your boyfriend invited you over for the evening, you should pack an overnight bag. Sherlock asked John, "I read in the magazines that I should pack a bag in case…in case I spend the night. But I'm not sure if that's too forward."

"Oh, Sherlock, you're so innocent."

Sherlock huffed at him, "I'm not innocent. I'm just….I just haven't done this." 

"Take a cab, come over. We will just be us. Hang out." 

Sherlock didn't know if he'd ever hung out, but he would try. He had a large duffel he packed with his computer, phone, chargers, clothes, toiletries, and at the last minute, John's books. The bag was packed full and it looked as if he might be leaving for a week vacation. 

As he left his apartment and loaded himself into the cab, he felt butterflies in his stomach. The ride to John's was only 20 minutes, but he had himself so worked up with nerves he was tempted to ask the cabbie to turn around. John was on his front stoop when the cab pulled up, and walked to the cab door. Too late to turn around. 

"Hi," Sherlock said fumbling to pay the cabbie. His palms were sweating. John was smiling, pulling Sherlock's bag out of the backseat. 

"Jesus, Sherlock, what is in here," John gave up trying to sling it over his shoulder and instead used both arms to awkwardly carrying it in front of his body. 

"It's got your books. And all my stuff," John shook his head fondly. 

Sherlock looked up at John's small home. It had a porch, and the windows on the front and door were edged with blue, yellow, and green rectangles of stained glass. The house was painted in a brick red that complimented the stained glass. 

"Sherlock, you coming in?" John had opened the door, and had sat Sherlock's bag inside the threshold. 

"Your house is beautiful," Sherlock whispered, slowly walking up the stairs. John took Sherlock's hand, linking their fingers together. 

"Let me give you a tour," John took Sherlock into the front entry. The home was warm with light woodwork and deep blue and red accent walls. Downstairs to the left of the front entry was a dining room with eight chairs. Off of the dining room was a kitchen with a breakfast nook, a back porch behind the nook, and the largest room on the ground floor was an office. The room was painted a light brown and had a couch and a huge desk and floor to ceiling bookshelves. Redbeard was sleeping on the floor in front of the couch. 

Sherlock could see his books on top of John's desk. 

"You ok?" John asked, rubbing Sherlock's arm. 

Sherlock blinked. He had an overwhelming urge to cry, "Your house reminds me…my grandma had a house like this. We had dinner at her house every Sunday. She was kind and patient with me."

John squeezed his hand, "Let's get your books, my books, I guess, out of your bag and put them in the office. Then we'll take your bag upstairs."

John never let go of his hand as he led him upstairs. Off the hallway was a small room that only fit a full size bed and a dresser. There was a white bathroom with a large whirlpool tub that looked as if it could fit three people. At the end of the hallway was a large bedroom with a king size bed and two high back reading chairs and more bookshelves. 

"Sherlock," John kept his hand linked with Sherlock's, "This is my bedroom. The guest room is down the hall. If you stay late, you can stay in either one. And if you stay with me, we will just sleep, ok?"

Sherlock nodded. John put Sherlock's bag in his bedroom, "We can always move your bag to the guest room, ok?"

They went back downstairs to the office, John only releasing his hand to sit next to him on the couch. Redbeard moved to lay under the desk. John put his arm behind Sherlock, laying it over the back of the couch. 

"I'm glad you're here," John put his fingers under Sherlock's chin, forcing him to look up and meet his eyes. 

"I'm glad I'm here," Sherlock tried to smile, but his lip was trembling, "I can't remember the last time I was over at someone's house."

John massaged the back of Sherlock's neck, "Is this ok?" Sherlock nodded. They looked at one another for a few moments, then John went to the kitchen to make some iced tea. Sherlock called Redbeard to him, who promptly jumped on the couch, onto his lap. Sherlock stroked Redbeard's fur. 

When John returned to the office with the iced tea, he found Sherlock asleep with his head rolled to the side, Redbeard snoring on his lap.


	19. "I play violin."

Sherlock woke with a crick in his neck and feeling especially warm. He opened his eyes to see Redbeard leap off his lap. He looked around, calling for John. 

"Right here, Sherlock," John was sitting on the far end of the couch, a notepad on a clipboard in his lap. The sun was setting. John moved closer and reached out to touch Sherlock's cheek. 

"How long was I asleep for?"

"Maybe an hour, a little bit more."

Sherlock continued to move his neck around, attempting to rub the knot out of it. John moved his fingers toward the back of Sherlock's neck, "Come here, I'll try to rub the soreness out of your neck. You were sleeping at a strange angle."

Sherlock scooted over, and John scooted back against the arm rest, pulling Sherlock with him. Sherlock was arranged so he was cradled in John's arms and in between his thighs. John used his knuckles to rub either side of Sherlock's neck, and applied lighter pressure with his finger tips to the back of it. 

Sherlock felt a strong desire to crawl as close to John as he could. He scooted backwards even further, the base of his spine lightly touching John's groin. John stopped massaging and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle, pulling him even tighter to him. Josh placed light kisses across the back and sides of Sherlock's neck. 

"Does your neck feel better?" John rubbed his fingers lightly over Sherlock's ribs. 

"Yes," Sherlock's voice cracked. 

"Is this ok? Me holding you like this?"

Sherlock reached back to face John, spinning around, inadvertently rubbing against John, "Jesus, Sherlock, be careful." John smiled as he readjusted himself and the lanky poet so Sherlock was on top and they were nearly laying down on each other.

"John, why do you like me?" 

John responded by kissing Sherlock soundly on the mouth, then looked into his eyes while he stroked his hair back away from his face, "You remind me of me. When I came back from the army, I was so lonely. I secluded myself from everyone. My friend Mike Stamford helped me through the darkest times. I just think you're a sweetheart."

John stopped, wrinkling his brow and pursing his lips. He opened his mouth, then shut it. He held Sherlock's face in his hands and finally asked, "Did anything happen, Sherlock? If you don't want to talk about it, that's ok."

Sherlock considered for a moment, lightly running his hands over John's arms and chest. He felt John exhale with a sigh, "I had a boyfriend, Danny, who was my first. I caught him cheating on me, and it was devastating. I was in love with him. I started taking pills because he was one of my only friends. I was in rehab, where I took up writing. I've only slept with a few people. Seemed pointless," Sherlock squeezed John to him, "I've never been called sweetheart before."

"I'm a hopeless romantic. And I'm a sucker for brunettes who can write. I'll call you sweetheart every day if you like." 

Sherlock put his head down on John's chest for a few minutes. John hummed, as one would to comfort a child, and he felt himself drifting asleep again. 

"Can we…" Sherlock started, biting his lip, looking up at John, "Just go to bed? To sleep, I mean? I am so tired. I think it's all the time being around people. I'm exhausted."

"Yes," John playfully tapped Sherlock on the nose. No one had touched him like that since he was a child, "But you read beautifully, you know. I was done for when I heard you read your poem, and you were the same man I'd been working up the courage to ask out from the coffee shop."

They carefully moved off the couch, Sherlock helping pull John up. The stood up, holding each other for a moment. John pulled away, taking Sherlock's hand, leading him to the stairs. Sherlock heard the clip of Redbeard's paws and nails as he followed behind them.

As they made their way into John's bedroom, John put Sherlock's bag on his King Sized bed. Sherlock looked around, taking closer inventory of the large room. "You have a fireplace in here. May I?" Sherlock gestured towards the large mantle which held a variety of photos and a few writing awards. 

"Yes, let me explain them," Sherlock picked up each photo, running his fingers over them, as John explained each one. His estranged sister, parents (deceased), and multiple photos of him and one tall, stocky man standing next to John wearing their army fatigues.

John's voice cracked as he explained the photo, "This is Alan, we met in Afghanistan. We were together, as much as you could be, in a war zone. The day I was shot, when we were ambushed, he was killed," John touched Alan's face in the photo, his features chiseled with a tan from the Afghan sun, "I never thought I'd live through the heartbreak. That's why I started to write."

John looked wistfully at the photo. Sherlock put it down, running his fingers instead over John's face, over his cheekbones, kissing every part of his face, kissing away salty tears. 

"You have beautiful hands," John said, taking his hands, kissing his fingers, his palms, pulling him close again, "Musician's hands. Do you play piano?"

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck, leaning down and in so leaned his forehead into John's, "I play violin."

John's eyes widened, "You are amazing," and he kissed Sherlock gently, Sherlock's tongue gently sliding into John's mouth. For a few minutes they only kissed, until Sherlock grabbed John's hips and ground them into his own.

"Please, take me to bed, properly," Sherlock growled into John's ear in between heated kisses. John pulled back and took Sherlock's face into both of his hands. 

"I am absolutely overwhelmed by you. I'm not rushing you. You stay in here tonight, I'm going to lock myself in the guest bedroom. Not because I don't want to do this, or because I don't care for you. I care deeply for you, and we need to wait. If we begin this, I won't be able to let you go."

John kissed Sherlock, holding onto his fingers for the last minute as he walked away, "I'm locking the door, but wake me when you wake up. The bathroom is right there to the side of the fireplace."

As much as John tried, he couldn't get Redbeard to leave Sherlock's side. The dog ended up curling up at the bottom of the large bed, leaving John alone in the guest bedroom.


	20. Worry

The night before, John did have to lock himself in his guest bedroom. Sherlock could make his own decisions, but with his shyness and lack of relationships, John was determined to move slowly. He tossed and turned in the guest bed when the light began to rise and hit his windows, but what caused him to jump out of bed was a loud pounding on the front door and an insistent ringing of the doorbell. 

John unlocked the guest door and ran downstairs to stop the doorbell and knocking before it woke up Redbeard and Sherlock. He looked through the peephole and the video capture screen (he'd had a couple over zealous fans a few months back) and on his front porch was someone who looked like Sherlock's agent with a taller man. 

John opened the door a quarter of the way, and the taller man started speaking very quickly at John, not allowing John to get a word in. His cadence and tone nearly matched Sherlock's, so it was a relative of some sort. It clicked for John- his brother and his boyfriend, Sherlock's agent. 

"Have you seen Sherlock? We've tried the two or three places he normally goes, and he's not answering his phone, and we know he had been talking to you, and we haven't heard from him in about a day-"

The shorter man with gray hair put his hand on Sherlock's brother's shoulder, "Mycroft, for crying out loud." Mycroft, (of course the names Mycroft and Sherlock would go together), shut his mouth and tried to peer into the doorway. 

"I'm Greg," the gray haired man explained, shaking hands with John, "and this is Mycroft, Sherlock's brother. I'm sorry, we obviously woke you. He's just in a bit of a panic because Sherlock has been very predictable for years and now he's not at home, or the coffee shop, or the park, or the library. Or dragged somewhere with us."

"Come in," John said, leading them quietly down the hall to the office with the couch where he gestured for Greg and Mycroft to sit down. John considered telling Mycroft he'd kissed his brother senseless on that couch the night before, but kept it to himself. 

"I didn't realize you kept such a tight rein on him," John flipped a chair around to face the two men, "He spent the afternoon and night here. I didn't realize he had to check in."

"Well, after the Expo and he ran off we were worried since then, that he might run off again." Mycroft halted his thoughts in the middle of his sentence, then continued, "He hasn't been involved with absolutely anyone for years. He spent the night with you?"

John steeled up his spine, choosing the next words carefully, presenting them in a harsher tone, "I hardly see what your adult brother does or doesn't do could really be any of your business."

Mycroft leaned forward, "He's painfully shy, doesn't talk to anyone, and needs support when he goes out in public. What makes you so special that he would instantly change habits overnight?"

John leaned back, tilting his head to the side, Greg was looking between Mycroft and John. No one spoke for a moment. 

"If I am special, ask Sherlock."

Mycroft stood up, looming over John, trying to use his height to intimidate him, "What are your intentions with my brother? I worry about him constantly."

John didn't look up at Mycroft. He picked at something on his shoe. 

"Are you going to answer me?"

"Are you going to ask a question worth answering? Do you even know me, you barge in my house, don't even introduce yourself, then proceed to berate me about your adult brother-"

John heard the clip of Redbeard's nails and paws on the floor, and the soft pat of Sherlock's bare feet. Sherlock stood in the doorway of the office, trembling, his hair all a mess on top of his head, lines from the sheets imprinted on his face and arms. 

"Greg, Mycroft, what are you doing here?" Redbeard stayed at Sherlock's side. 

"We hadn't heard from you, and we needed to make sure you were all right-"

John wanted to interject, but he stopped himself. If he fought Sherlock's battles for him, he would be no better than the fools on his couch. 

Greg stood up, "Sherlock's fine. There's no need to labor the point any further."

Mycroft went to open his mouth, and Greg shushed him. Mycroft threw a murderous look at John, but walked past Sherlock without a word. 

Greg spoke to Sherlock for just a moment, "Just call me when you can about your book. Good day, sorry for the intrusion." Sherlock and John heard them shut the front door behind them. 

Sherlock and John looked at one another, then burst into a fit of giggles. John opened his arms and Sherlock sat on John's lap. 

"Did they quiz you? Think you were taking advantage of me? What did you say?"

John gave Sherlock a kiss, "I told them it was none of my business and to ask you."

"Oh," Sherlock giggled again, "I do wish you'd told them you were holding me hostage. We could have split the fee."

John wiggled his hips, nearly throwing Sherlock off his lap, "Are you really here against your will?" 

"No. No," Sherlock continued to giggle, then stopped, his eyes growing wet, "I haven't laughed in so long."

John wrapped his left arm around him to bring him close on his lap, then used his right hand to brush the curls behind his ear. He gently ran his fingers over his cheekbones, lips, and chin, "I'm glad you can laugh with me, sweetheart."

Sherlock put his head down on John's chest, letting him cradle him in his arms, "I'm not too heavy, am I? Should I get up off your lap?"

"Don't you dare!" John growled, continuing to touch Sherlock's face, neck, "I can't believe you're here."

Sherlock smiled, "I'll need to go home, sometime-"

John looked at him, biting his lip, "You can stay, as long or as little as you like. I'd like it if you stayed."

Sherlock pounced on John, moving so his legs were on either side of John's, pushing himself into him. John had to put his hands on Sherlock's hips to keep him away just a bit as the friction was too much. His was straining to keep his composure and self control. Sherlock kissed John, ragged breaths and tongue, inexperienced but desperate to be closer to him, to convey what he wanted. 

"Jesus, Sherlock," John moaned, putting his hand under Sherlock's shirt, touching his stomach, his chest, grounding himself as he turned his head slightly, "Sherlock, we need to stop."

"I don't want to stop," He mumbled, kissing and nipping at John's neck. 

"Hey," John pulled Sherlock's head up, cradling it in both his hands, "I've got to go meet Sally at the precinct and morgue for research on this current crime novel. Come with me. We will have a day of a proper date, get supplies," he tickled Sherlock low on his stomach as he said the word supplies, "and if you still like me after you've seen the weirdest part of me, you can stay over again tonight."

Sherlock opened his eyes wide, grinning, "You want to take me to a morgue on our first date?"

John turned his head, "A bit not good?"

Sherlock jumped up, pulling John up with him, "No, it's brilliant!"

Sherlock ran down the hallway and up the stairs to get dressed. Redbeard close on Sherlock's heels, chasing and nipping as if it were a game. 

John stood there for a moment, grinning. He shook his head, and followed behind Sherlock and Redbeard.


	21. "While You're Down There"

John couldn't stop smiling. Sherlock was so excited that Redbeard was yelping around his feet as the poet dug through his duffle looking for something to wear. John had dressed in his jeans, boots, and a leather jacket and was waiting outside the bedroom to give him some space. 

Sherlock came out of John's bedroom with no shirt. Sherlock was more muscular than John anticipated, now fully revealed in sunlight. Wide pectorals, round and peaked nipples, a slim and sweeping neckline that curved into a strong jaw.

"Do you have a shirt I can borrow? I guess, I hurried, and didn't pack enough…."

John clenched his lips and pulled on Sherlock's wrist to gently move him out of the way. 

"I know I'm…I'm not much to look at. If…I was called all kinds of names when I was younger…" Sherlock looked at John, his face open. 

"I will tell you how gorgeous you are for the rest of your life. I'm just not speaking and walking away from you to keep my promise and my hands to myself." John went directly to his closet to dig through some of his shirts, finding one that was a promo for 'Walking Wounded.' It would hang a little big-

As John rubbed the fabric through his fingers, he stopped and breathed quietly. He'd made comments to Sherlock about _forever_ or _the rest of your life_ with ease. He didn't want to mislead this lovely man with anything Sherlock didn't want to give. 

As he was walking out, the comforter looked slightly rumpled, but hardly slept in. There was a notebook full of writing, scribbles, and pictures on the bed. They'd both shared a restless night in separate beds. 

As he walked back to Sherlock, he saw his back was covered in goosebumps. He was looking at a painting on the wall and rubbing his arms up and down his sides. 

They needed to leave. Now. 

"Here's a T Shirt you might like," John giggled, poking Sherlock in the side. He felt his ribs, "You're gorgeous, but I'm going to feed you up." 

Sherlock grinned as he pulled the shirt over his head, "Is that what boyfriends do, feed you up?"

Sherlock bit his lip, nervous. 

John ached. Sherlock was so braced for rejection, every compliment, every kindness, he was prepared for John to turn him away. 

"Sherlock, yes, that's what this boyfriend will do," he kissed him, Sherlock running his hands through John's hair, running his hands down John's back, letting his fingers gently drift down his tailbone and start to reach lower. 

"Sherlock, you are lovely," he pulled away, grabbing his fingers, kissing each one, "But if we are ever going to get out of this house, we need to leave."

"Okay," Sherlock nipped a few kisses against John's neck. As John rubbed Sherlock's fingers, he still felt his goosebumps and his small shivers. 

"Are you still cold, sweetheart?" 

"Yes," Sherlock nodded into John's neck, his voice low and rough. 

"Let me put Redbeard to bed and see what else I have,"

Sherlock caught John's bicep before he got too far, "Bring back a marker. I want you to sign my shirt."

John grinned, jogged downstairs. Redbeard was in his bed off the garage, so John dug through his closet. His dad, who had been quite tall, had left a deep blue/black Belstaff coat behind. John never wore it, as it would've gone down below his ankles, but it looked the same shiny color as Sherlock's brunette locks. The length of it would hang beautifully over Sherlock's frame. 

John grabbed a marker and the coat and met Sherlock in the entry. Sherlock smiled when he saw the coat and he let John wrap himself up in it. Since it hadn't been worn in a while, John knelt down on one knee, the marker in his mouth, and smoothed out the bottom hem. 

Sherlock bent down just a little bit, "While you're down there,"

John looked up, twitching his eyebrow.

"Go ahead and sign my shirt, will you?"


	22. craving terrified

Sherlock felt absolutely warmed by the Belstaff. It was old, smelled musty, and had the very faint hint of evergreens and Old Spice aftershave. He was jittery, keeping his arms wrapped around himself so he didn't fly out of his skin. He followed John to his truck in a tired daze. 

John had referred to himself as Sherlock's _boyfriend._ He'd pinched the skin between his thumb and forefinger to be sure he was awake and hadn't dreamed it. Side effect of being exhausted and excited all at once. The night before he was unable to sleep beyond a couple of hours. 

Over the course of the night, he had crept to the guest bedroom door to listen to John sleep. What he heard instead was moans of frustration, ruffles of sheets, and pillows thumped against the wall. He'd put his hand on the doorknob multiple times, but stopped short of turning it, or knocking. He knew John would let him in, but would feel guilty in the morning. 

Instead, Sherlock alternated between listening at John's guest room door and writing in his moleskine. He had marked off a special section dedicated to John. 

He had pieces and bits put together, and he wanted to share it with John before submitting all his recent poems to Greg. 

_lockbox opened_  
deep under rootless tree clay earth   
winter has pulled out last of spring 

_do you hear the ache of bones kept hidden_  
muscles not stretched in years  
voice and teeth and tongue no longer mine  
running  
heat  
itch of palms seeking fingers  
lips seeking collarbone 

_lockbox unlocked_  
thoughts pulled as magnet north  
heated mouth as if coffeeburned 

_pushing up as underwater  
breathe in after held breath_

_craving terrified_

Sherlock crawled up into the cab after John, taking a moment to look over John and John's house in the background. After John put on his seatbelt, Sherlock reached over and squeezed his hand. John gently took his hand and placed it on his thigh, "I have to drive with both hands, sweetheart, manual transmission." He winked at Sherlock, revving the engine and backing out of the drive. 

Sherlock wanted to kiss him, but he instead looked through John's CDs as they drove towards the highway. 

"You like country music?" Sherlock asked, holding up a handful of CDs. 

"Is that a problem?" John laughed, "My liking of country music is a deal breaker?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. 

"Hey, Sherlock-" John stroked Sherlock's cheek for a moment while they were at a stoplight, "I'm just teasing you. You can say, do, or ask almost anything of me. Just because I'm doing my damnedest to take things slowly doesn't mean I'm not absolutely over the moon with you, ok?"

Sherlock grinned, as John's hand moved back to the steering wheel Sherlock put his hand on John's thigh, just up a little higher. John cleared his throat. 

"Is over the moon a phrase country singers use?"

John laughed, turning corners to get on the entrance ramp, "Maybe. Later, I'm going to play you one of my favorites and make you dance with me."

Sherlock gently stroked circles into the top and side of John's right thigh. His mind wandered as he considered if John would be covered in light, sparse, blonde hair, or if it was thick and darker. He hoped when they danced John would kiss his neck, and run his fingers through his hair and over his ears. 

"Sherlock, did you hear me?"

They were at least a couple of miles further down the road. The tires bumped over a pothole, and Sherlock squeezed John's thigh in reflex. John rushed air into his nose. 

"Sorry, I was thinking, what did you say, John?"

"Jesus….um. I was just asking if you wanted to swing by your place, after this, to get your violin? And anything else, to stay a while? You've only been there one night, but it's been far less lonely having someone there. I mean, not just cause you're there, just anyone, but I like you being around, oh hell."

John was biting his lip and was a spectacular shade of red that flushed his ears and splotched his chest. 

"I know. I don't want to go back to my apartment. I feel as if I've been walking around half asleep until I met you."

John grinned, meeting Sherlock's eyes. In response, Sherlock squeezed John's thigh again. John was rounding the last corner, pulling the truck into a visitor space in front of a gray, cinder block building with 4 sets of garage doors. 

As soon as the truck was safely in park, John grabbed Sherlock possessively and pulled him as closely as he could, "You were driving me insane with your beautiful fingers," he kissed Sherlock's nose, cheekbones, eyelids, "You've got to help me maintain control here, squeezing my thigh isn't helping-"

Their eyes snapped open and they broke their kiss when they heard a sharp rap on the window and felt the cool breeze from the door being whipped open. The two men would've tumbled out onto the parking lot if John hadn't braced his arm on the door. As it was, Sherlock tumbled a bit over John and was face to face with a tall, black woman with mocha skin and long curly springs of black hair. 

"Oy, this is a morgue you idiots," the woman had a crisp east coast accent, which made her sound even more angry and annoyed, "why are you in the visitors spot making out?"

John and Sherlock untangled themselves, John turning so the woman could see his face, "Hello, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Um, this is my boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes."

She stepped back and gave them her hands so they could step out of the truck easier, "Sorry about that, I couldn't see you, John, when you two were attached at the,well, everywhere," She blinked a moment, looking more intently at Sherlock, "Wait, you're-"

Sherlock finished the sentence for her, "A writer, too, yes."

She shook her head, "No, I hardly recognized you with the coat, but your photo is all over the Internet. You and John and Redbeard, walking in the park. Photo is all over John's fan pages, trying to solve the mystery of the tall, dark, and handsome brunette that finally caught John H. Watson's eye. Friends have been texting me all day, asking if I knew who you were."

John grabbed Sherlock's hand and laced their fingers together, "Have you told them anything about Sherlock and I? Or said anything when they asked?"

Sally rolled her eyes, "I hadn't met him before just now, had I? I just told everyone you were a work colleague, which is true, since you're with him to look at this case and this body with him for the book he's writing."

John smiled, "Good. That's good."

Sherlock's heart hurt. Was John embarrassed?

John continued, "I'd rather not have folks bothering us right now since we just started dating. The fans at my house come in waves. Sometimes they bother me at my house, and sometimes they leave me alone. I'd like them to just leave us in peace for a while."

Sherlock sighed in relief, John bumped Sherlock's shoulder playfully. 

Sally nodded, "Should be doable, for a while. It's good to meet you, Sherlock. But, let's get going on this so I can be home for the Cubs game."

John pulled Sherlock along in Sally's wake as she marched down the parking lot and into the employee entrance of the morgue. John thought maybe he should've prepared Sherlock, but they were already in the thick of it. They entered the 'freezer room' and she rolled out a body from one of the cabinets. John braced himself to catch Sherlock as he'd had to catch many a classmate in medical school. 

As he looked over to Sherlock, his eyes were wide open, and he had a slight twitch of a smile on his face. John squeezed his hand, then took him to the mid floor cabinet to put on gloves. Away from Sally, Sherlock was grinning. 

"John, this is the best date ever!"

John tilted his head, looking up at his brunette, "We haven't really started yet."

"Still," he said, leaning in to kiss John's forehead as he pulled his gloves on, "This one is the best."

Sherlock walked over to the body, now freed from its black body bag. He leaned over it, looking at every bit of the deceased man's frame and the variety of injuries on his body. John was standing beside Sherlock, and as Sherlock was preoccupied with his examination, Sally mouthed to John, "What is his deal?"

John mouthed back, "He's perfect."


	23. "I Want Crazy" - Hunter Hayes

"So, you're a writer, too? And crime writer John H. Watson's secret boyfriend and colleague?" Sally bent down a bit to try and catch Sherlock's attention. He was focused on the corpse. 

"Oh, me?" He looked at her, "It's a bit complicated." John snorted, Sherlock threw him a look over his shoulder, then returned to Sally, "So, the crime that we're studying is that this man was supposedly poisoned, but there is no mottling of the skin or around the fingernails that one would expect with a poison victim? The crime scene and the body and the cause of death aren't adding up?"

Sally gave John a look. John grinned and shrugged. 

"How could you possibly know that? Did John show you any files on this person?"

"No, I read a lot of crime novels, and I have a Master's degree in Chemistry." 

Sally grabbed a notebook and made some notes, "What do you think really happened?"

Sherlock looked from Sally to John, "You really want my opinion?" John nodded. 

"Well, it would depend on his apartment. Did he have any friends? Or was he living alone? Any family? If he was alone, which I would imagine, this is a suicide with medication."

John asked, "How would you know that, sweetheart?"

Sherlock coughed, then spoke, more quietly, "Um, check his liver. And through his apartment more thoroughly. There should be some more information there….." Sherlock trailed off at the end of the sentence, voice wavering, "Excuse me."

Sherlock walked out of the morgue at a breakneck pace. 

"Sorry, Sally, catch you later."

She nodded, already pulling out her phone to contact dispatch for arrangement of another look at the scene. 

John ran outside, the light blinding him a moment, expecting to see Sherlock by his truck. He wasn't there. Extremely distinctive with his tall frame and long black coat, he expected to easily see him if he was walking up or down the road. He didn't see anyone. 

He stood, rubbing his eyes, panic creeping up the back of his neck. He heard a sound, off the back corner of the building. Shuffling. Crying. 

John peered around the corner and saw Sherlock sitting on the overgrown grass, legs pulled up close to him, head on his knees. He was sobbing. John remembered how incredibly young Sherlock was and how much he didn't know about him. John hesitated for a moment, then decided to crash through the grass, sitting beside Sherlock, unwrapping him, pulling his arms and legs around him. 

"Sweetheart, shhh, I'm here. I'm here," Sherlock buried his face into John's neck, gulping ear and dripping warm tears that ran down John's collarbone.

As Sherlock stopped shaking and he started breathing normally, John pulled back to look into his eyes, "Please tell me,"

Sherlock opened his mouth, and spoke so quickly John could hardly keep up. Most of what he understood was from lip reading, "I was so lonely a year ago and I didn't want to live. I tried to talk to people but no one understands. I went to the doctor for back pain and I saved all the pills. I have no friends. He looked like me, that's why I knew he had overdosed, the sinking of the eyes, the dark color, not blue around the fingernails. Mycroft sent me to rehab and I looked like that when I looked in the mirror. You shouldn't date me, I am absolutely crazy…"

"Breathe, Sherlock," John put Sherlock's hand on his chest, letting Sherlock feel his inhales and exhales, breathing in an exaggerated fashion, in his nose, out his mouth, "You are not crazy, you and I are alike. You went through a difficult time, and sometimes you will flash back to that trauma, yeah? Sometimes I will walk past an alley and duck and roll, expecting gunfire. When I got back from Afghanistan, I would drive far around any type of road garbage or debris expecting an IED. This is no different."

Sherlock put his head on John's chest. John felt his shirt growing warm and wet, "This is usually the time friends and lovers leave me. Because I'm dramatic, and petulant and crazy."

"Sherlock," John picked up his chin and gently kissed him, "You're a poet. You're supposed to be that way. That is on your CV."

"Stereotypical," Sherlock squeezed John tighter. 

"You're at a morgue with a crime series writer, and a popular one at that. My books are sold at every airport bookstore as entertainment. Some of your criticism on your blog is not unfounded," John smiled down at him. 

"John, I am so sorry. I didn't know you, I am childish-"

"Or for pete's sake, stop," John stood up, pulling Sherlock up with him, "I forgive you. I wouldn't have met you otherwise. Besides, you're allowed."

John took his phone, skimmed through it, then started to play a song. He kept his phone in his hand as he wrapped one arm around Sherlock's waist and the other on his shoulder, "Well, let's go to the parking lot. Dancing in this grass will probably cause one of us to lose our balance and trip."

John took off Sherlock's coat and his jacket, placing them on the hood of his truck. Sherlock's cheeks were pink from crying and the sun approaching noon heat. He pulled Sherlock closer, singing into his ear with the music. Even though it was a fairly upbeat song, John danced with Sherlock in a slow, hip swaying motion. There was no space between them. 

"I want you to listen to these lyrics. _I don't want good, and I don’t want good enough. I want can't sleep. Can't breathe without your love. Front porch and one more kiss…..It ain't right if you ain't lost your mind. Yeah, I don't want easy, I want crazy, you with me baby? Let's be crazy._ "

Sherlock swayed with dizziness of John whispering in his ear and the burning feeling of John's hands on his hips and shoulder, the music fading in and out with passing cars. 

"I actually like country music, John," Sherlock kissed him, then stumbled forward. John felt his forehead. Warm, and clammy.

"You're warm, sweetheart, let's go get you some food and a drink, and we'll go home, yeah?" John asked, his face open with adoration. Love. Sherlock was head over heels with it, and he hoped desperately the look on John's face meant he felt the same. He wiped his face again with his hand, he was sweating but cold all at once. 

John held onto him as he put him into the cab, putting on the song again before he drove out of the parking lot. 

Sherlock was lulled to sleep by the music and the rhythm of the tires on the road, less than one mile away from the morgue.


	24. Don't be Embarrassed of That

John did his best to keep his eyes on the road while occasionally glancing at Sherlock. He thought back over their day so far and chastized himself. He hadn't gotten him breakfast, then he'd dragged him all over the place, and didn't bring any water with them. Sherlock was a slighter man, most likely thirty pounds less than John, and didn't have any reserves on his slim frame. He was pale, flushed cheeks, and a little clammy. He probably had low blood sugar and was emotionally exhausted, leading to his sudden, unexpected nap. 

"I'm a terrible doctor," John muttered to himself, turning the air conditioning up and scanning the scenery for the nearest pharmacy. 

"No you're not," Sherlock mumbled, turning his head to John. His curls were sticking to his forehead. 

"I thought you were asleep," John answered, pulling into a pharmacy parking lot. 

"No. In and out. I'm just so tired all of a sudden. Where are we?"

"Getting some supplies," John thought back to their earlier conversation about the outcome of their date, so he corrected himself, "You don't look like you feel well. Getting you some gatorade and tylenol."

Sherlock actually fluttered his eyelashes at John, teasing, "Don't forget the other supplies you promised to get." 

"You're incorrigible," John replied. 

"You love it," Sherlock answered, reaching out to squeeze John's arm. 

"I do. I do."

\------------

After John purchased a variety of supplies, including Sherlock's special request, he took Sherlock home. In the 35 minutes it took to make the pharmacy purchase and drive the freeway, Sherlock was covered in sweat and shaking. His shirt was soaked nearly to his armpits, and he was slurring his words a bit. 

"Sherlock, what is your brother's number?" 

"Hmmm…. Why d'you need Mycroft?" He stumbled up the steps to John's porch, leaning on him as while he opened the door and turned off the alarm.

"You really don't look well, sweetheart, and I wanted to see if there is anything in particular I should get for you."

Sherlock handed John his phone as he allowed John to guide him to the couch. He helped Sherlock strip off his shirt. He laid him down, gave him a cold washcloth for his forehead while he went to the kitchen to call Mycroft and make some soup. 

After one ring, a deep voice answered "This is Mycroft Holmes." Even the retired army captain was a bit intimidated by the snap in his voice. 

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. This is John Watson."

"Is everything all right?" The voice was no longer sharp, but quiet, concerned. 

"Yea, Sherlock's ok, just a little sick, and it came on quickly. He's warm, clammy, and slurring his words. He's not able to really tell me how he feels, and I imagine it's just dehydration and low blood sugar, but I just wanted to be sure. See if there is anything else."

"Dr. Watson, my brother's health was fine at his last physical. I would just imagine he's just not used to all the exertion-"

"If you're trying to be funny, Mr. Holmes, this isn't a joke-"

"Dr. Watson, I was not referring to the…..Jesus, this is my brother. I wasn't referring to the bedroom at all. My brother has spent most of the past five years as a recluse, in his apartment or the coffee shop, only talking to myself, Greg, our parents, and barely talking to fans. If you've spent the day outside with him, that's probably more activity than he's had in a long time."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were trying to make a joke." John looked at the stove, realizing the soup was boiling. He turned it off and moved it off the burner. 

"I don't really make jokes, Dr. Watson-"

"John."

"John, but I think your assessment is correct. Food and rehydration. Before anymore activities."

John rolled his eyes, then continued, "He came over with only one change of clothes and he'd like his violin. Is there any way someone can bring some more of his clothes and violin over here? He may be here a while since he's not feeling well."

"Of course. Expect these items within two hours."

The phone disconnected. 

John shook his head as he ladled some soup into a mug. He grabbed a gatorade on the way, capsules of tylenol, and sat down on the floor near Sherlock's head. Even without a shirt, he was still warm and perspiring. He used the washcloth to mop up his face a bit, urging him to drink and eat a few bites, and to take the medicine to hopefully bring down the fever. 

"What did my brother say?"

John stroked his curls out of his eyes, pushing them back behind his ears, "He is bringing some of your stuff by in a while. I just wanted to make sure you didn't have anything else serious with your health, you're a little out of it. He thinks-"

John felt grief rushing over him. He remembered the day he found out Alan had died in the ambush. He hadn't gotten to say goodbye to him, so he'd dreamed of comforting him, stroking his face, running his fingers through his hair, as he'd done for many other dying civilians and soldiers. His most terrible nightmare was that Alan had died alone, uncared for. John found out a month later that another solider, Robert, had held onto Alan and covered his body with his own until the shootout was over, keeping him from insurgents who would've strung him up as an example of the enemy. 

"Where did you go, John?"

Normally, John would say "Daydreaming" or "Nothing," but he pressed forward with a simple explanation. 

"In the army, I would comfort people. Either sick, or dying, and a lot of what I could do was so simple. Just a washcloth or a kind word, waiting for helicopters or help. I was just remembering-"

Sherlock reached out and touched his forearm, gently encouraging him to continue. 

"-remembering when Alan died, I'd been shot and injured myself. I didn't get to comfort him. It just came back to me, suddenly, sitting here with you. Just remembered all those times when I was sitting next to someone. Just, trying to ease their pain," John leaned forward, kissing Sherlock's burning forehead, "I am glad you're not that sick. Mycroft thinks it might take a while for you to adjust to being out so much. Since you've spent so much time just in a few places. Simple exhaustion and dehydration. I'll have to do a better job of keeping an eye on you."

Sherlock tried to smile, sitting up slightly to slowly sip down some gatorade. He took small sips of the soup, drinking and eating everything John fed him. John adored the way Sherlock followed his eyes, his hands, observing everything.

When Sherlock was done eating, Redbeard came to his side and began whining, so John dismissed himself quickly to tend to the dog. After the dog had run outside for a few moments, he bounded onto the couch and laid near Sherlock, resting his jowls on Sherlock's shins.

"Redbeard has claimed you as his," John laughed, giving his dog an affectionate scratch behind the ears, "A year ago I'd dated someone for a couple of months. Redbeard hated him. Wouldn't be in the same room as him, chewed on any clothes or anything of his he could get his paws on when he would come spend the night."

As if the dog could understand John, Redbeard crawled up on Sherlock a little more, laying across nearly half the couch. 

"Turned out he was selling stories about me to tabloids, letting the paparazzi know our habits so they could get good photos and pay him part of the proceeds for the tip. I trust Redbeard when it comes to people in my life."

Sherlock smiled, reaching down to pet Redbeard as much as he could reach. He sighed, "I feel like, oh, the oldest sister in 'Pride and Prejudice.' The mom sends her out in a rainstorm so she's sure to get sick and stuck at her beau's house for a few days. Thank you."

John giggled, "Ok, you read Jane Austen, you have my whole collection of crime and war novels, you are extremely observant when it comes to markings on corpses and you have a Master's degree in chemistry….you keep surprising me, Sherlock Holmes."

John leaned in, kissing Sherlock on the mouth, gently, letting his tongue just rub slightly over his lips. He felt Sherlock smile under his lips, "I'm full of surprises, Dr. Watson. I wish I felt better. You need to go get yourself something to eat and drink. I'll just rest a few moments."

John went out to the back porch, calling for Redbeard to come outside with him. He wouldn't budge from Sherlock's side. John went alone, with some peanut butter and bread and some water, and sat on the back porch. He watched birds flit from one tree to another, landing on the bird feeders he kept near the roses. He couldn’t wait for Sherlock to feel better so he could sit out here with him, watching the sunset, drinking wine. 

John felt his eyes prick with tears. Sherlock was so innocent and trusting. He swore he would hate the poet once they'd met face to face, or that he'd simply punch him in response to his blog. Now, all he could think about was getting him well so they could spend more time together. Life was truly amazing and ridiculous. Though his life seemed more full than Sherlock's, in reality, he had to admit he was just as lonely, just not as secluded. 

John heard the doorbell and the knocking echoing. As he walked from the back yard to the front yard, he wiped his face as best he could. Mycroft was on his front porch, with two people in suits carrying a variety of boxes and bags.

"Goodness, you didn't waste any time," John smiled, walking past them to open the front door. 

"I'm sorry, if I've brought too much, I wasn't sure all he would need," Mycroft blushed. The helpers, or assistants, simply set the boxes and bags in the inside of the front door, "We can take anything back if needed."

"No, no. I've got plenty of space. Large closets and storage up and down stairs I haven't even put a dent into yet. He's welcome to bring whatever he likes," John peeked down the hall to just see Sherlock's head resting on the couch through the entryway. He was breathing deeply, sound asleep. From this angle, his color looked more normal. 

"Dr. Watson, er, John. I need to apologize to you. I was very much out of line when I first met you. I just, he's never left his apartment in years, and I was concerned-"

"Think nothing of it. The more I've gotten to know him, and what he's been through, I would be, too."

The men stood their awkwardly for a moment, then Mycroft said, "Please call me if you need anything else." Mycroft walked out the door, taking a moment to glance down the hall at Sherlock before stepping out onto the porch. 

John shook his head, "What a weird man." With Sherlock asleep and his brother gone, John picked up the boxes and bags and carried them upstairs. He put everything in the guest room except the violin, simply to allow some extra space in the bedroom. John blushed as he put the bag from the pharmacy in his bedside table. He looked in the tops of the bags, just a glance, and pulled out a tshirt, shorts, and boxers. They weren't sleeping together yet and they'd become intimate rather quickly. 

John went downstairs, gently shaking Sherlock's shoulder. "Sweetheart, come upstairs. We need to get you a bath and changed so you feel better." Sherlock smiled up at him, still half asleep. John guided him upstairs, leading him to the large master bathroom off of the bedroom. 

The bathroom was as large as the guest bedroom. In the corner was a large whirlpool tub that looked as if it could fit four. Above the tub was another stained glass window, more detailed than the other stained glass in the house. It was a garden pattern, with roses, peonies, and hydrangeas made out of small bits of glass. The reflection of color into the white bathroom sparkled colored sun rays on the floor and walls. 

John sat Sherlock on a brocade fabric covered stool near the bathtub as John ran a lukewarm bath, urging Sherlock to take the water as cool as he could stand it. John helped Sherlock undress, keeping his eyes averted when he was completely naked. 

"John, it's okay, I don't mind," Sherlock said as John guided him into the tub with a towel around his waist, "I'm not a child, I don't mind if you see me."

"Sherlock," John kissed him, keeping his eyes on his face as he guided him into the tub of lukewarm water, "I know you're not. I just want you to know that I care about you. That this isn't a fling of any kind."

John sank to his knees by the side of the tub so he was eye level with Sherlock and he couldn't see down into the water. He'd caught a glimpse of Sherlock's thighs and the dark hair curling on his lower belly. What he caught of the man's figure was gorgeous. To keep thoughts from wandering, he concentrated, instead, on washing Sherlock's hair, his back, his chest, and doing his best to control his breathing. 

"If our roles were reversed, John, I wouldn't be such a gentleman," Sherlock flicked some of the bathwater onto John, leaving a large, wet stain, "Oh, you'll have to take off your shirt now."

John drew close to Sherlock, their noses nearly touching, "You'll need to do better than that, Mr. Holmes."

"If I were feeling better I'd have already pulled you over into the tub."

John kissed him, tickling kisses along his jaw and collarbone, "Let's get you dried off and in clothes and into bed, hmmm?"

Sherlock giggled when John's lips ghosted against his ear, "Will you come to bed with me? Just to sleep. It's only late afternoon."

"Yes, dear one," John pushed himself up, grabbing two large towels from the antique linen closet. He helped Sherlock out of the tub, noticing his balance was better. He dried and dressed him quickly, tickling his ribs and chin. 

"You're good to me," Sherlock told him, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. He pulled John to his level, kissing him slowly and deliberately. John felt Sherlock pull back and assumed he was moving to get into the bed to sleep. Sherlock, at once, was pulling him onto the bed as he pushed off his notebook and pages from last night, "Please,"

"Sherlock, I will sleep with you, just sleep, but you need more water and gatorade and….."

"John, for god's sake." Sherlock pulled John's wet shirt over his head in one swift motion before John could protest, pulling the larger man on top of him as he did so. John responded by stroking his hair back from his eyes, turning so Sherlock could see his shoulder. 

"Normally, this is when people start with self pity, of not looking me in the eye while we're having sex. I have scars all the way down my left side. Gunshot wound is the biggest one, I have, uh, smaller ones where I couldn't get clean stitches in time. I usually don't take my shirt off…." 

John tried to get up, with his last shred of self control, but Sherlock pulled him down with his waistband. Sherlock began kissing and licking down every scar on his left side. The largest scar, the shoulder wound, appeared more like a large burn that had healed irregularly over time. John pulled Sherlock closer as he touched all of the folded and twisted skin, alternating between kissing the wounds and kissing John. 

"Sherlock, you are a marvel," John took off his pants, leaving himself just in his underwear, pulling himself and Sherlock under the light covers, "But you need to sleep. You've not felt well today,"

"John," Sherlock rocked his hips into John's, and with the light fabric the only thing in between them, he felt his erection pushing into his own. He hissed, grabbing Sherlock's bicep, "John, please, I want you. I want to. Please."

Sherlock flipped so he was on top of John, and he began pulling off his clothing, John protested, "I just got you dressed," but was cut short when Sherlock, completely naked, began rolling his hips and entire body against John. Sherlock was still slightly damp from his bath, so his stomach and chest stuck to John as he ground his hips down. Before John could move his hands lower off Sherlock's back,the poet had pulled down John's underwear, nearly twisting his foot in the process. 

"Sherlock, jesus, Sherlock, slow down," John had imagined taking Sherlock to bed, covering his body with kisses, going slowly due to his shyness. He did not expect Sherlock to be demanding, to strip him, to push their naked bodies together with force. Their mouths, their teeth, their tongues dove into one another, and John felt his erection slide next to Sherlocks, the man's nimble fingers curling around them both. 

"God, Sherlock, are you sure, please, fucking hell," Sherlock sucked the side of John's neck as he used his fingers to pull the precome off of both of them, sliding them together, heat pooling in John's belly and balls, "Sherlock, ohmygod, I'm not going to last,"

"I don't want you to. I want to feel you come, then I will clean you up, and we'll sleep, and make love properly tomorrow. I want to feel you, please," John was taken apart by his voice, a young voice but heavy with need, "I want you, John, I love you."

Sherlock snapped his head back, blinking, "I mean, I-" 

John grabbed Sherlock's hips, then he was pushing on Sherlock from the base to tip of his cock, rubbing his thumb underneath the sensitive head. He rolled his hips in time with Sherlock's, and for moments they panted and moved against one another. John's hand was now holding onto both of them, Sherlock grabbing onto John's shoulders nearly sobbing into his neck. Sherlock came first, John felt the heat and wet across his thighs and in between his fingers. He arched his back into Sherlock, using the fluid to work himself to orgasm quickly, moaning into his mouth, "I love you, too, Sherlock. Don't be embarrassed of that. I love you, too."


	25. Something About a Code

Sherlock woke in the middle of the night. John was sleeping next to him, only his arm wrapped around Sherlock's waist. 

Sherlock wanted to fall asleep in John's arms, but he couldn't. He was too used to being on his own, to being in a dark room wrapped in his blankets, he gently urged John to the other side of the bed. John was half asleep and didn't seem offended. 

They were dressed in their bedclothes. Sherlock traced John's shoulder and back through his shirt, recalling how he'd kissed, nipped, and licked against all of John's scars. John breathed deeply, but didn't wake from Sherlock's touches. 

Sherlock got up and decided to go downstairs to write. Before leaving, he shut the bedroom door quietly, but not before Redbeard darted out like a shot. The door padded behind him as he wandered in the kitchen to get some water and went to the office. 

He scanned the bookshelves, all the classics, and more modern books, including a full collection of Stephen King and James Patterson. Above the fireplace was a "Best New Crime Series Award" next to a signed photo of John and bestselling writer Dan Brown. Sherlock shook his head. He _hated_ Dan Brown. He'd read a chapter of one of his books, something about a code, and threw it in the trash. 

Near the corner, by the large bay window that jutted onto the back deck, was a small table and chair set from the 1970s with an old electric typewriter on top. Sherlock walked around it to look at it, assuming it was decoration, but it had paper in it, with reams of paper next to it. There was an out box with a stack of typed papers in it. 

Only glancing at the first page, he saw impeccable typing. Nothing with whiteout and typed over, nothing with XXX marked over a word. In an open drawer next to the chair was a stack of notebooks full of writing, notes, and references. John hand wrote his book, made the corrections, then typed it out. This would be a laborious process from start to finish. From the notes he read, John was also meticulous about facts and details from the cases, making sure all angles of the story were tracked. John took his writing seriously. He remembered some of the harsher criticisms he'd typed on his blog. Sherlock's face burned.

Sherlock sat at the typewriter, clicking out a few pages of nonsense. He typed out some of his poems. He'd forgotten the feeling of a typewriter under his fingers, the bounce of the keys, the snap of the roller moving across the page, the clunk of the return key. 

After he was used to the feel of the typewriter, he wrote John a letter. He thought it through, exactly what he wanted it to say, before he started on a word. 

 

Dear John,

I've been here two nights. We've known each other for a very short amount of time, in the scheme of things. We've already told one another that we love each other. I know I, realistically, should slow down. 

I don't want to.

You've taken care of me when I've been ill, we've gotten to know each other over the past weeks. I've written you poems. I love you. I love being here with you. I love your dog. I want to go with you when you go to the morgue and when you study topics for your books.

Please forgive me. I know you have. I love all your books. I don't know what drove me to write all those vile things on the blog about you. They aren't true. My poems had dried up. When I met you, a flood of words and emotion came running back into my life. I wasn't living, do I didn't have anything to write about. These past weeks have been the best of my life. I am not exaggerating. I've been so alone. 

You're asleep. I'm going to give this letter to you the moment you wake up. I want you. I want to make love to you, fully, and be yours. You won't hurt me. I know you. I love you. How could I not? 

Sherlock

 

Sherlock let Redbeard into the backyard for a few minutes while he re read the letter. When he was satisfied, Sherlock went back upstairs, keeping Redbeard out of the bedroom this time. The dog huffed at him, and went downstairs. 

The sky was just turning the lightest blue, just a hint of sunrise, when Sherlock crawled in next to John, holding his letter to his chest.


	26. Wet Curls

Years later, when they would tell their two children on when they knew they'd get married, or when they knew for sure they loved one another, Papa would answer "When your father called me an idiot." Father would answer, at the same time, "When your Papa called me an idiot."

Sherlock laid under the blankets, his heart pounding, the letter wrinkled to his chest with sweaty palms. He imagined John on a battlefield, stitching wounds, taking debris out of gunshots, sitting alone in a hospital after finding out Alan had died. He was happy for John, and for his life he had now. He was glad he was here. 

John stirred, yawning, sunlight streaming in the window. Sherlock pounced, shaking him awake. Bleary eyed, Sherlock held out the letter to John, but he wouldn't take it. Sherlock didn't trust himself to speak. Sherlock held it to John's chest, but he still wouldn't grab it. 

John's voice was raspy, "Sherlock, are you breaking up with me, with a letter?"

Sherlock drew close to him, partially on his lap, "No, you idiot. Read it!"

Sherlock put his head on John's shoulder as he read through the letter. He read it partially out loud, in a hushed tone of wonder. The moment he was done, he placed it gently on the bedside table, pulling Sherlock up for a deep kiss. 

"Always," John whispered, "And yes."

John pulled his shirt and shorts off of himself as Sherlock did the same. The sunlight struck John so his tan glowed. Sherlock held his arm up against John's, "I need to get more sun," John laughed, kissing him on his neck, his jaw, his cheek. "That will be difficult. I imagine we'll be in this room quite a bit."

John drew Sherlock down to him, and they touched one another, hipbones, ribs, cheekbones, feet, kissing or teasing with licks as they went. John moaned as Sherlock took his hand and wrapped it around John's erection, "Sherlock, how do you imagine doing this, love?"

Sherlock reached to the drawer, pulling out their bag. He grinned at John, using his thighs to push John's legs and thighs up and out a bit. "I imagine everything, John. This way, first? Can I be inside of you?"

John nodded, breathing out. He helped Sherlock with the lube and condom, assisted Sherlock with moving his slick fingers against John's entrance. "This was unexpected," John said, kissing Sherlock, opening his mouth with his tongue, grinding on Sherlock's fingers. 

Sherlock hissed, "What, me wanting to be inside you, and not the other way around?"

John grabbed Sherlock's hips, running circles with his fingers around his hipbones, "No, you idiot," Sherlock grinned at him, "That my harshest critic would _love_ me. That I found someone to love. Who understands me." John trailed off, a tear running down his cheek.

Sherlock removed his fingers, lining himself up with John, who was now open and dripping with lube, "Please, Sherlock, please. I can't wait."

"John, I'm not going to last long,"

John began stroking himself at a furious pace, using his heels and calves to urge Sherlock forward to enter him, "We can practice later. Please, love, please."

Sherlock tried to be gentle, but John was pleading, crying for him, and pushing him in with all the weight of his legs. Sherlock drove in, the heat, wet, and warmth pulling him like a string from his neck to his lower belly. He drove to John's cries until he orgasmed, spilling over both of them, and Sherlock cried out loudly as he came to the feeling of John squirming all around him.

John was breathing heavily, "oh mygodsherlock.."

"Not God, but I'll take the compliment," Sherlock giggled, pulling himself out slowly, wrapping the condom and throwing it away. He pulled John up a bit, kissing him, pecking kisses across his sweaty forehead and chest, "I love you."

They showered together, John lazily washing Sherlock with his hands, cupping his balls and squeezing his ass cheeks. They ended up giggling, spraying water on each other, rubbing and kissing as they did a poor job of cleaning one another. 

After they left the shower, they took turns drying each other off, grinning at each other. Sherlock turned red, looking out through the beautiful stained glass. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. 

"John, this may be, a little forward of me,"

"Tell me," naked, half dried off, John wrapped himself around Sherlock, pulling his wet curls back so he could see his face. 

"My, my lease is up in two weeks. I was wondering if I could, could move in? Rather than signing another year…."

Before John could reply, both men heard an anxious bark and yip from outside the bedroom door. "There's your answer," John whispered, kissing Sherlock.

"But, you have to live with me, too. Is it ok?" Sherlock pulled back, his hands on either side of John's face. They were both smiling. 

"Oh God, yes."

**Author's Note:**

> follow my tumblr Tag **#jurgbury poet sherlock**  
>  for original art, screenshots, and visual supplements to the story

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Поэзия и Проза](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11821980) by [never_v_hudo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/never_v_hudo/pseuds/never_v_hudo)




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